


Where the Grass Grows Green II: On Bended Knee

by Ragnelle



Series: Where the Grass Grows Green [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Dark, Character Death, Gen, Torture, Violence, What if Sauron won?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 89,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragnelle/pseuds/Ragnelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The Quest failed and darkness rules the lands of Middle-earth. For the captives in the Land of Shadow, hope is bleak, and at best they strive to stand, even if only on their knees. And Sauron is set on bending Elessar to his will.<br/>Book two of six.<br/>New readers: please read the summary of the first book in the notes. (Or the first book ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall of the West.

**Author's Note:**

> What has gone before (for new readers. Feel free to skip):  
> This work is the second book of “Where the Grass Grows Green”, a dark AU of which I have planned six books, corresponding more or less to the books of LotR. The main premise of this tale of “what if”, is the question: “What would have happened if Sam killed Gollum before he entered Mount Doom?”  
> My answer is rather dark, as I believe the quest would have failed and Sauron regained his Ring. Yet not completely without hope.  
> The first book follows those that escaped from the Battle of the Black Gate and later Minas Tirith. A group, taking the name of the Faithful, resisted the Dark Lord. Their leaders took refuge in Fangorn Forest. Ten years after the defeat, a small group of the Faithful, led by Éomer, travel to the town of Calembel in the south of Gondor in search of food. There they hear news that brings them new hope. Leaving their task of buying food for their people in Fangorn, they hasten to Minas Tirith in a desperate bid to save that hope.  
> We left them as they had penetrated the dungeons underneath the Citadel and finally found the cell of the one they sought:  
> Lord Aragorn.  
> …  
> Book one can be found in my profile under the name Where the Grass Grows Green I: We May Yet Stand. While knowledge of the fist book is not needed for the first part of this, the whole work is intended as one, continuous story — rather like LotR itself — and in later parts, characters and the story arch from the first book will merge with this. Reading just book two will feel at bit like reading only the story of Frodo and Sam, with no knowledge of what happens to the rest of the Fellowship once they have parted.  
> Warnings: Rated for violence, torture, and character deaths. Mostly non-graphic.  
> Disclaimer: All characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. This is written purely for entertainment and at no monetary gain.

_“I can not forget that day. However I have tried, I can not. The din of the battle and the smell of decay, there through the whole desperate struggle. I did not notice then, but in my memory the scents and sounds are clear; the smell of rotten weeds and dead things from the Marshes mingling with the blood and sweat and fear on the plains, the din of sword striking on sword, shaft on shaft and the screams of the dying drowning the grunts of efforts from those fighting._

_Then silence came, and I heard._

_The flapping of the eagles' wings, the breath of the men around me and the beating of our hearts. The wind blowing, hissing between the jagged stones, the humming of the earth silenced in one breathless moment when all we could do was wait and hope._

_Wait, one endless heartbeat._

_Then darkness fell, and all our hopes with it. I sensed more than saw Gandalf falling beside me, untouched. The first lines were swept away in the new rush of enemies. The sons of Elrond separated by the throng, and the Dúnedain scattered. I saw Imrahil fall from the blow of a club and his men slaughtered. The second line held just long enough for me to gather my wits and call a standard-bearer to me, and prepare to meet the onslaught. I could only hope that Éomer would understand my thought and seize the chance if my plan failed._

_And why would it not fail, when all other plans had?_

_The only thing left now was to die in battle, and take as many of the enemy with me as I could. Or so I hoped, for death would now be better than life; we had failed._ I _had failed, and I would fall into shadow with the rest of my kind. And so I lead the White Tree and the Seven Stars down into the dark water crashing against our small island, to drown in the overwhelming wave. No ships to bear us, not through this._

_It closed around us. I do not know how many men were cut down bearing the banner; a new bearer would pick it up whenever it was felled, until the last one planted it in the ground before he fell. I could not see if any remained fighting.  I stood alone. The only tree to be seen the White one, the only stars: the Seven above._

_They knew I could not stand against them. I knew that I could not; death should have come quick. Instead they jeered and played with me, though those that came close enough did pay the price, and for a time a cry sounded over the field, echoing in my mind, sounding and resounding over the jeers._

_"Elendil!"_

_They kept back, unwilling to brave my blade. Surrounded in the growing dark, I would rather face the last light, and as the evening wind hissed over stone and dust I turned towards the West._ Day shall come again, _but who should live to see it come?_

_Then the Nazgûl returned and the wave swallowed me.”_

…

Few reliable testimonies can be found regarding the fate of the lord Elessar and those that did not escape the battle of the Black Gate. This account, given by King Elessar himself, is one of the few that have survived, and one of the few from his own mouth. Despite the difficulties of such sparse material, I have been able to piece together the events following that day, and the tale of the King's fate from his capture and through the ten years that followed. The latter proved easier, for the Enemy, it seemed, recorded much, and the Steward too gave accounts of what he knew. Other testimonies as well, I have gathered; most valuable of those the King's own renderings, come to me through my grandfather. Through them I have attempted to construct a coherent story that may serve to explain some of the choices that were made, and the events that followed. Even so, my tale is not complete, for there is much the King never revieled. And I will not bore the readers with what I have already told, unless I deem it of interest to hear another's acount. The memory can be a fragile thing, and no doubt my readers will be able to spot the differences of the events told here, and those told earlier. I have not been able myself to allways dictern the true account, so I give them here as told by those trapped under the Shadow.

We know that Aragorn, the Lord Elessar, was the last to be captured. Whether this was because of his skill or the Enemy's design is unclear. No doubt remains that it was on the Enemy's orders that he be taken alive, and that might explain why he did not fall earlier in the battle though we know his skill in battle was great. Others, whom the Enemy also desired to take alive, had been overwhelmed early: Gandalf the White, who was struck down from afar by the Enemy's power; Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who was wounded when the enemy broke through the first lines. But the King fought long.

Fiercely he fought. Blocking, ducking, weaving through the dark sea, drawing the enemy to him. Aragorn fought until the day ended, until his strength gave out and he stumbled in weariness.

Around him the orcs jeered. He jumped back from a blade, barely stepping back in time; the tip cut him, breaking the skin of his temple, near the eye. He parried and struck back before he blinked the blood away. The orcs drew back, and he stayed. Heaving for breath, he waited. Andúril rested on the ground, the tip dragging in the dirt beside him while slowly he turned. He watched his enemies, and they watched him.

They saw him drag his feet. “Put down your sword,” they jeered. “Give up, _tark_! Your men are gone. The Eye has won, and he will have you before the day has passed.”

He did not answer, only shifted his grip and continued his slow turns.

The jeers grew louder, and the orcs drew closer again, encouraged by his weakness. He sensed movement, and spun with a speed that belied his earlier stumbling. His sword flickered up; blocked, twisted, thrust; and the orc fell.

They drew back once more, and he grinned: They feared him still.

He drew himself up, to stand tall before them. At his back the White Tree bloomed and the Stars shone against the Black. Here he would stand, as long as his banner stood. And fall with it.

His eyes burned. “Begone!” he shouted. “Or fall before my blade, and your master's triumph shall avail you little.”

His boaster was met with taunts and mocking laughter, then with silence. The orcs parted. Haradrim horsemen rode through the throng. Their leader halted.

“Why is this man not dead or bound?” he asked the nearest orc. The creature shrank from him and whined.

“That is their king,” it said.

The Man looked up at Aragorn. He saw the Silver and White, the green stone still visible around his neck. The Star. The sword. The stance.

“Surrender!” he called. “The Lord of Gifts is merciful, and you have lost. Surrender now, and you may yet know his blessings.”

“I know his blessings,” Aragorn replied. “Sauron knows not mercy, and his gifts are lies.”

The captain shook his head, but he smiled. “You are proud,” he said. “Pride I understand.” He dismounted then, and drew his sword. His men followed him, and he barked an order. The orcs closed behind them. Swords were sheathed, but instead those with whips and sticks and wooden clubs drew close. The Men had daggers in their belts, ready to be drawn, but the only edges that still were bare, were Andúril and the captain's sword.

Aragorn waited. His sword pointed to the ground, an iron gate to block all attacks.

The captain did not wait. He came, striking from above, with a cry of war. Aragorn met him.

“Elendil!”

He stepped aside, let the cut glance off his sword and pass him by. Stepping close he struck the captain with the pommel. The captain stumbled back, and Aragorn followed. Andúril glittered through the air, down towards the captain. But weariness slowed him, and ice gripped his chest. Above, unheeded in the fight, great wings bore the Nazgûl back to the battle. It shrieked, and Aragorn faltered at the sound. Then he recovered, and struck.

But the captain had recovered as well. Now he, in turn, deflected. Too close for swords, the captain stepped around and locked Andúril to the ground with his own sword. He slammed his elbow into Aragorn's chest, and Aragorn — trapped between the arm and the captain's leg — was thrown backwards.

Stunned he lay, and heaved for breath. The horde of orcs and men closed in. They struck with whips and sticks and fists. He writhed in the dust, twisting from the blows, rolling to escape, to stand, to fight; but they pinned him to the ground and held him until he could no longer fight. They forced his sword from his hand and twisted his arms to bind them; pushed his face into the ground to keep him still. Dirt filled his mouth. The stench of sweat and blood and the filth of orcs around him. The smell of stagnant pools and mud. He struggled against their hands and claws, but they bound his legs, his eyes.

They stepped aside, and he lay heaving on the ground. Silence fell around him and at that moment all he could hear was his own breath, and the whisper of the evening wind, hissing in his ears.

Footsteps. Someone stood above him.

“Take the standard and his sword,” the captain said. “Bring them and him. Strip him for weapons, but leave all else untouched; the Lieutenant wants him unspoiled.”

Hands searched him, tore belt and scabbard from his side. A knee pressed into his back, fingers twisted in his hair and tugged his head up.

“Where is your pride now?” the captain asked. “You should have surrendered, or fallen on your sword ere you let yourself be captured. Now your honour is forfeit, and your pride dead.”

“Not yet,” Aragorn answered. “Each moment I fought, gave Éomer time to escape. Each man I slew, was one man less to attack. And soon I will be dead, and thus escape your master.”

“I would not count on it.”

He released his hair and stood. “Gag him, then bring him. The Mouth of the Master will see him.”

They ripped cloth from his own sleeve to bind his mouth. He strove to breathe around it; they did not care. It tasted of dried blood, and dust and dirt. Soon fresh blood mingled with the old, seeping into the cloth from the wound on his face.

They dragged him back. He could not see the vast armies of the Enemy spread around the slag-hills, the camp erected outside the Black Gate or the scavengers seeking among the fallen. Around him the horses of the Haradrim tumbled, Men and Orcs pressed around and many tongues and voices rose in triumph. The noise went before him, followed him, surrounded him and swallowed up all other noises he should have heard: the moans and cries of the wounded; the terror of dying beasts; the calling of his name.

They stopped. The din dwindled, and the sound of the field when the battle is done, drifted back. Familiar sounds; all fields sound the same whether lost or won. Men replaced the clawed hands of orcs and he was dragged forward again; his feet too tightly bound for him to walk or stand. The rough fabric of a tent brushed against him, the sound of a voice questioning the Men, and he was thrown to the ground in answer.

“Here he is, lord, the one you wished for: their king.”

Aragorn waited. It was hard to hear above the blood drumming in his ears. The tent was silent and though he strained to hear, there was nothing but the dull _thump, thump, thump_ of his blood. He felt, more than heard, movement and flinched before he could steel himself. A toe nudged at him and then drew back. More movement, and he was hauled to his knees. The blindfold was removed.

The tent was lit with many lights, but Aragorn looked straight ahead, into the folds of dark robes. Sable trimmed the edges of the cloth, the fur glossy against the dull black of the fabric. He traced the weaving and the seams.

“Look at me.”

One of the furs was lighter than the others, a small imperfection hidden at the bottom of the hem. The stitching was rougher there as well, as if it had been replaced by one less deft. He caught the flicker of a gesture in the corner of his eye. _Do not think of it._ _The robe, think of.._.. The robe was wide, and far too little worn for the sable to need replacement.

Hands wrenched his head up, to look at the Man. The nameless one. The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr.

The Mouth smiled. He held a sword in his hands, turning it over. Aragorn jerked when he recognised it, but he was held in place. He shifted his gaze, tried to look past the man, but that did not help him much. Behind the Lieutenant was the banner, _his_ banner: The one Halbarad had brought, the one Arwen had made. He swallowed, but made no other movement.

“Thy rabble hath not helped thee, brigand king,” the Mouth said. He made a gesture, and one of the men took the Elessar and the Star of the North from Aragorn and handed it to him. He took it and let it swing from his hand. “Pieces of Elvish glass and a famous sword; didst thou really think it would have won thee thy crown?

Aragorn did not answer. Could not answer. He stared past the Mouth, refusing to meet his eyes. It made the other sneer. He leaned down, until his breath was hot on Aragorn's face. He gripped his chin, forcing him to look him in the eye.

“Thou couldst never win.”

Aragorn held his eyes and stared back. Strove in silence, as they had done before the fight begun. A moment, then the Lieutenant's gaze flickered. He drew back, and struck.

If not for the hands holding him, Aragorn would have fallen. His vision darkened, and he reeled with the blow, but before he could steel himself for what might come, a messenger interrupted.

“The Lord's servant is here for the prisoner.”

The icy fear that heralded the _nazgûl_ descended over the tent. The guards stiffened. Their hands gripped tighter on Aragorn, but they shook. The Mouth turned to the messenger, and the guards standing by the opening.

“Tell him that he will be brought shortly,” he instructed the messenger. The man bowed and left, and the Lieutenant gestured to the soldiers before he turned back to Aragorn. The soldiers stepped further into the tent, and Aragorn marked their steps. They did not come for him, but went to a heap of white cloth.

_A Elbereth!_

The Mouth laughed. “Didst thou think thyself great?” he mocked. “Didst thou think the lord Sauron would fear thee and covet thee? Didst thou think He would send his servant to fetch _thee_? His mind is on things far greater than an uncrowned king.” He watched Aragorn to gauge the impact of his words, but he showed no sign that he had heard. His eyes followed the body of the wizard dragged towards the tent's door.

“He lives, and bears no wound,” the Mouth said. The tent-flap closed, and hid them from sight. Aragorn turned his head, and for the first time sought the Lieutenant's eyes uncompelled.

“He was the most powerful among you, and now he will serve Lord Sauron well.” He smiled, the glee barely hidden in his eyes. “He has other plans for thee, but fear not, crownless king: thou wilt serve Him also.”

Aragorn's eyes flashed. He could not answer, he had no room to fight, but with his whole being he denied him. He held the other's eyes, his body calm as if there were no hands to keep him on his knees, no ropes to hold him bound. No mud and blood and dirt to stain him. He held the other's eyes, and told him _no_.

The Mouth stepped back. He blanched and faltered. Outside, the _nazgûl_ took to the air and the clammy ice lifted from the tent, chasing the beast speeding through the air back to its master. The Mouth regained himself, and stood tall. His eyes flickered but his voice was calm.

“Take him away; he will learn his place.”

“Lord?” The captain, who had stood quietly observing the events unfold, stepped forward.

“Have a healer see if he has any hidden wound, then leave him to his rest.” He looked at Aragorn. “He will serve.”

The stiff patch of dried blood scraped against the wound beside his eye and all he saw was darkness once more. They hauled him up and dragged him away. Through the whisker of cloth, through the shouts and stamping feet, to the screams and whimpers of wounded where they stopped. They would not let him stand, and so he hung between his guards, searching for some sound than could tell him what would come next.

The captain spoke, and through his words Aragorn knew more. “Healer, come here. The Mouth of the Great Lord wished that this prisoner be checked.”

“Is he dying? No? Then set him over there,” a voice replied. “I will see him when there is time; our own wounded are dying before my eyes. I lost one already while wasting time to patch up another of his kind. At least _those_ wounds were grave.”

“You will look at him _now_ ,” the captain said. “You need only see whether he bears any hidden wounds. He is to be kept alive; some plan for the war.”

“I thought the war was won.”

“The war, but not all battles are done. His life may save many of our people's.” There was a pause. The captain's voice, when he spoke again, was low and full of threats. “It will save yours.”

The healer sounded tired. “Over there,” he said. “I must finish wrapping this wound, or this soldier of _our_ people will bleed out.”

Aragorn was dragged again, but when they stopped, he was pushed down to sit at some tall bench. Or bed; it was too broad to be a bench. Cloth covered the surface, and from what he could guess, there was straw beneath. Around him were the groans and muttered, senseless speech all wounded speak.

The captain called the healer once more, impatient to leave.

“It is the will of the Great Lord,” the captain's voice drifted closer again.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the healer answered. “I will remember it. And you remember it, too, the next time it is you that needs my skill.”

Aragorn shifted a little on the bed. He was sore, and stiff from the fighting, and the bonds became harder to bear each moment. He could feel it now, when there was nothing to do but sit and wait, and guess at sounds.

“Well, then,” the healer said. Aragorn startled; the healer was far closer than he had guessed. “Let me look at this prisoner who is worth so much to our Lord.” There was a silence, then he spoke again.

“I cannot practise my craft with a patient so bound, captain.”

“Yes, you will. You need but confirm that his wounds are not grave. The rest can wait.”

The healer snorted. “When did you learn my craft?”

There was a rustle, and sudden movement around him. Aragorn strained to hear, to sense, what happened. The captain's voice helped him guess.

“Where are you going, old man?”

“To treat those I can, and who need it. You wish me to see if this man has hidden wounds? Then I must see his eyes, and have him answer when I ask. Any wounds I could detect by just seeing his body, you could find as well as I.”

Another silence.

“Very well.”

Night had fallen. He should have guessed it from the lights in the Mouth's tent, from the way the sun had turned red before his capture, yet he had not expected the darkness around him. No canvas hid the camp from him; the wounded had no tent to shelter them against the night. But beyond the light of fires and the torchlight the healers used, was nothing but a dark wall. No stars, no sky. He moved his jaw and would have spat the taste from his mouth, but the healer took hold of his head.

“I need more light.”

More torches came, and Aragorn closed his eyes against the light. _Too bright, too bright_.

“I know.” The healer's thumbs against his eyes lifted one eyelid. “But I need to see your eyes.” The healer mumbled, and opened the other lid. He let go and Aragorn screwed his eyes shut before he blinked against the dark spots.

“Hmm,” the healer said. Nothing more. He began to prod and poke, finding with unerring fingers the sore and bruised spots. When Aragorn could not answer his questions — his mouth too dry to speak — the healer had water brought.

“Drink, then speak. I will hear no lies, but neither will I try to understand the words you try to cough.” He held the water-skin to Aragorn's lips.

Cool and soothing the water filled his mouth. Cleaning out the dust and mud and gravel from his voice, cleansing tongue and cavern free of the taste of blood and sweat and the dirty cloth.

And the healer prodded and asked again, and kept a comment for the captain who stood impatient beside. Aragorn did little but sit and wait until the healer would finish; he had no wish to hasten him, but he did as told.

"Keep the cuts clean: infection can kill as easy as a sword.”

The captain said nothing. The healer tapped Aragorn on the shoulder. “Lie down on your back.”

The guards grabbed him before he could move and pushed him down.

“Help me with the clothes.”

Hands pulled, hard and impatient. No longer calm, he struggled, but they held him down and pushed the layers away. The healer's hands were cold against his skin. He clenched his teeth. _Do not speak, do not scream!_ Was this all it took? They did not even try to harm him, but the Mouth had not caused him to feel as helpless as did this.

The healer muttered to himself. His hands disappeared, but came back to hold Aragorn's head and pushed back his eyelids again.

“Any pain?”

“No.”

He whispered the answer. Kept his eyes closed. The healer was silent for a while.

“Well, then,” he said, and his voice was gruff. “Get him up again, this way; it is better light on this side.”

They hauled him up again, and the healer asked him to open his eyes again. The light was less painful now, and he could see past the healer, to the other beds close by. He caught the glimpse of dark hair on the bed beside him before the healer spoke again to ask of any dizziness. “No,” he said, and the healer stepped away. He was speaking to the captain, but Aragorn did not hear their words. He stared at the man lying in the bed beside him.

He knew him.

Dark hair, proud face, his eyes closed in sleep, if sleep it was. He was pale, with the sickly colour of the gravely hurt, but Aragorn knew him.

“Imrahil.”

He dared not speak too loud, lest the captain heard. But either Imrahil was in too deep a sleep, or his voice was too low; the Prince did not stir. Aragorn could not see his wounds, but he saw the chain around his neck that bound him to the bed. His wounds too deep, then, for him to be a risk. Aragorn recalled him standing in the first line, falling beneath the dark wave. He'd thought him dead, and could not say if it was luck that spared him.

Before he could see more, or try to speak with him again, the darkness and the gag were back. He was hauled to his feet and the healer's voice followed him as he was dragged away:

“Remember what I said; keep the wounds clean, and change those ropes with chains.”

The captain gave no answer.

Aragorn could not hear whether the captain accompanied his men. There were too many sounds to single out one man's stride, and all of them muffled by the blindfold that also covered his ears: The sound of many feet, the feet of man and orc and beast. The din of many voices; the lamenting of the grieving, cries of the wounded, and the mocking jeers that followed him, and through it all the thrumming of blood in his ears. The _thump, thump,_ _thump_ ing of his heartbeat.

He could feel, more than hear, when the crowd around him thickened. When they pressed around him, causing his guards to slow their pace. He was jolted. His feet scraped over the ground and the grip of the guards tightened. They slowed to a stop.

“The king!” A shout was heard. “It is their cursed king!”

The shout was taken up by many voices. “The king! The king!” and the voices of orcs mixed and blended with the voices of the men: “The _tark_ king!” and “Let us have him, he has killed enough of us.”

Aragorn was tense, but calmer than he had been under the healer's hands. This, _this_ was expected.

Something cold and moist and wet hit his cheek. He flinched and fought the urge to duck his head. Mud, or some unsavoury thing; it dribbled down his face. The shouts grew louder, hands grabbed at him – new hands – and he had time to think that perhaps, perhaps it would be better. The hands pulled at him, but the guards held on and Aragorn hissed as they tore at him from different sides.

The crowd pushed in from all sides; clashing waves that rolled and turned and he was carried with the currents, drifting helpless. A leaf tossed in the gust of the wind, held up by the press around him.

But the wind abated, and the sea calmed. Slowly and in degrees the crowd silenced, and fell away. Aragorn hung once more in the grip of his guards. He tried to clear his mind. Tried to breathe, his breaths loud in his ears. A voice broke through the silence, rough and low.

“Disperse,” the captain said. “Do not thwart the Great Lord's plans.”

“Ach!” another said, grating and loud. “The lads will not stay back for long, if that's all you have. ' _Disperse_ '” it mocked. “Pshaw!” The orc – no other could make any tongue sound so foul – spat, and Aragorn flinched, expecting to be hit again. But no spit came his way, and the orc spoke again.

“Listen, maggots!” he bellowed. “You're to keep your hands off this one here, or you'll lose more than hands; the Eye'll have your flesh stripped from your bones. Get off to sleep, while you can, there'll be more fighting soon enough. We've won the war, but those _tarks_ and elves will be too stubborn to admit it. And if I hear any grumbling, you'll all be in the group that marches tomorrow.

“Now off with you, or more of you'll taste my blade.”

The crowd slunk away, the sound of them dwindling into the background. The captain gave a snort of disdain.

“You don't like my ways.” The orc did not ask, and the captain did not answer right away. The two guards stood still, as if waiting for some order, and Aragorn could only hang between them and wait. And listen.

“Killing your men without further judgement? I find it wasteful, and unfitting,” the captain answered.

If he had been able, Aragorn would have laughed, but it would have been bitter. Saved by the blade of an orc?

“Don't want to dirty your hands, eh?” The orc spat again, and Aragorn could not help tensing. “ _Skai!_ It is the only way to make 'm fear you; without fear, they don't obey.”

“I find that my men obey me better when they are alive.”

“And who made them _disperse_?” the orc countered. “Eh? Who broke 'm up? You just pose on that fancy horse and steal our prize, but who does the real work around here? Orcs, and you know it. We obey our own.”

“We all serve the Great Lord,” the captain said. “You have been of some small service here, _Uruk_ , but now you are hindering us.”

The orc laughed at that. “You know how to threaten after all,” it said. Aragorn could feel it lean close; he could smell its breath, feel it on his skin. Claws gripped his face. “Your flesh would have tasted sweet,” it hissed. “But the Eye will burn it from your bones. If you are lucky. Do not think we have saved you, _tark_.”

It spat, and this time it did spit on him. Aragorn tried to tear his head away, and the orc laughed again. It let go and stepped back.

 “That is enough,” the captain said. The orc answered before he said more:

“He is all yours.”

The guards dragged Aragorn away once more. He heard the captain speak again, but he paid it no heed. His shoulders were sore and bruised from many hands, and the spit and… other things… itched and tickled, and he could not wipe it from his face.

Ahead he heard the sound of another crowd. He lacked the strength to do other than bite the gag and clench his bound hands. But the guards did not tense nor harden their grips. Soon he heard: the sound was that of men – wounded and in pain. Closer and closer to the sounds he was dragged, and he could hear the rattling of chains, the crash of metal upon metal, and the shouts of Men.

“Chieftain!”

He tried to turn his head towards the voice; he knew it. One of his men: Haldor. A good man. Some, or at least one, of his Rangers had survived.

Haldor called out again, but the guards ignored the shouts. They dropped their prisoner to the ground and began to bind him in place, putting him on display. Haldor fought against his own bonds and shouted in protest. The men around him took up the cry, and they would not be silenced. The guards shouted back to them to be silent, but they did not obey. Not while the soldiers worked to bind the Chieftain, not when they left him kneeling, unable to see or speak, or sit, or stand, or move. Not when the guards crossed the Road and strode straight towards Haldor, singling him out as the main troublemaker.

 _Perceptive guards_ , Haldor thought. _Should I curse or give thanks?_

He kept up his loud protests, as did the rest: defeated they might be, but not beaten yet.

"Silence!"

They did not listen. Not now. Not when they could show some resistance. Past the legs of the guards, Haldor could see the Chieftain stir.

"Chieftain!" he called. "Chieftain, are you hurt?"

He could not see if he tried to answer; the guards hit him to silence him, but Haldor did not stop calling. And neither did the men around. A not of triumph entered Haldor's voice; the Chieftain lifted his head! Not as close as Halbarad had been, not as close as even his younger brother, Haldor was a Ranger still. He knew his Chieftain. He knew that tilt of the head.

"Chieftain!" he called again. "Aragorn!"

But it was the call of Elessar that won out around him, and Haldor joined it.

"Elessar!" the men called. "Elfstone!" As if by the calling of his name, he might break free. As if by the calling of his name, he might triumph still.

And Haldor called with them, so that by the calling of his name, the Chieftain would stay strong. And feed Haldor's failing strength.

The guards stopped their beatings; they could not silence the prisoners that way. They turned, and walked back. A new note of triumph crept into the call.

Their triumph was cut short.

The shout died upon their lips and dwindled into silence. Haldor strained against his chains, but dared not call again. The Chieftain hung bleeding in his bonds. The blindfold had fallen to the ground, but Haldor did not think he could see; the guards had brought out a whip, and it had cut his face.

 _The guards are perceptive._ Haldor cursed.

“Enough talking,” the guard warned, and the men understood the threat well enough.

None spoke again.

Aragorn got a glimpse of darkness, and the deeper shadow of one of the Teeth. He blinked against the blood that ran into his eye, and before he could see more they re-bound his eyes. The sound of footsteps told him that the guard moved away. He waited. Unmoving he hung until his shoulders ached with the strain.

“Chieftain?”

It was Haldor again. His voice was low and soft, but by that sound Aragorn knew that the guard was out of sight, or hearing. He lifted his head, and tried to stand up on his knees to ease the strain.

“Chieftain, I…” Haldor's voice was full of unshed tears, heavy and hard in grief. He could not find the words to speak. Aragorn tried to smile around the gag, to offer some small comfort. But there were no comfort in this place, and he shook his head and let it fall again.

He could not see how his men watched over him and never took their eyes off his slumped figure as the night deepened, and the dark around them grew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on language:  
> Skai - Orcish interjection of contempt  
> Endnotes: I have received help from quite a lot of people in the writing of these books. First and foremost, the people on The Garden of Ithilien for help with development, planning and the first drafts, and my beta JAUL for final nitpicks, and Mirach for help with the fight-scene.  
> I also owe thanks to reviewers on FFnet who have made me take a new look on my writing and the style I've used, and that have spotted those mistakes that slipped past my otherwise vigilant beta. Isao Fujita and Phalanx in particular helped me revise to the better.  
> The first six chapters or so are already posed on other sites, and I will try to post them quickly. Once I have caught up, I will post about once a month.


	2. Do Not All Men Share Blood?

Morning came at last. In the early hours before dawn, when the dew would chill a man to the bone if he had no cloak or blanket, a deeper chill passed high above the Black Gate. Those below felt it, like the shadow of a cloud upon the heart. North and west it flew, and the dawn was dark from it.

But dark though it was, morning still came, with the blaring of horns and the shouting of Orcs and Men; a great part of the army broke camp. They marched out between the Towers of the Teeth and turned north, across Dagorlad and east of the Dead Marshes. Towards Lorien, and Rivendell beyond the mountains.

Aragorn had not slept, but drifted in and out of an uneasy slumber. The trembling ground roused him. The feet of orcs and horses and great  _mûmakil_  shook the earth, and they passed by so close to him that he could feel the warmth of the animals, and the movement of the air around the army. The sound was deafening.

The prisoners on the other side of the road could see the gleam of the weapons and the glitter of gold and red on the Haradrim warriors. A cloud of dust rose up into the air, chocking them.

The Rangers sought to get a glimpse of their Chieftain through the dust and the throng of feet. They did not heed the jeers the orcs hurled at them, or the insult from the Easterlings. They strained against the chains that kept them bound, and only ducked to avoid the rotting filth thrown at them.

Hours passed before the last company disappeared beyond the Towers and the dust settled. The prisoners, chained to the ground and to each other, coughed and shook the dust from theirs heads, rubbed it from their eyes. Of the Rangers, Haldor was closest to the road. He brushed the filth away as best he could with chained hands.

"How is the Chieftain?" Belith asked him. The Ranger was close, but a clumsy bandage covered his head, obscuring his sight.

"I cannot say," Haldor answered. "He is covered in dust, like the rest of us, and his head is down, but other than that… I see no wounds, but that means little."

Aragorn stirred. He turned his head from side to side, slowly, as if he tried to see with his ears.

"Chieftain!" Haldor tried to make his call soft, and still be heard, but his voice was rough from dust and lack of water. At the sound Aragorn raised his head.

The words abandoned Haldor, as they had last night. They had never come easily to him, but now they fled, died on his lips and refused to let themselves be uttered. And so Haldor waited in silence while his chieftain cocked his head, birdlike. He saw dried blood on the side of his face. Saw mud and dust and filth staining him. Saw his chest rise and fall. Saw the tremors in his arms and legs from the strain of keeping upright. Saw…

"Haldor? What do you see?"

"He lives." Haldor found his voice and words. "He lives, and he is aware." And there was nothing more to say.

…

They came for him before midday.

Time was slow in the dark behind the blindfold, but his men tried to speak to him when no guards were around, and he held on to their voices. Haldor, the only one he could hear clearly, had counted five Rangers among the captives he could see. He did not mention any of his other companions. If Legolas, Gimli or Pippin were alive, and captured, they were too far for Aragorn to hear, or for them to see him. Aragorn hoped they had escaped with Éomer. He hoped  _Éomer_  had escaped. Haldor said nothing of him either.

It was before midday.

Hunger had begun to gnaw, but he had known worse. The thirst was more pressing, and the gag sucked all moisture from his mouth. He could feel dust and dried blood cake on his skin. It itched. There were stiff patches of dried blood on the blindfold and the gag, and they were rough and scratching. A nuisance more than pain, but one he could not escape.

"Guards!"

The warning moved through the lines of prisoners. Silence followed, and the footsteps of the guards close after. They stopped in front of him.

"Fools!"

The guards swore, and Aragorn grunted in pain and bit into the gag when they began to tear at his arms; the nailed-on wood proved hard to take apart. So the soldiers swore, and began to break the wood.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

His heart beating. An even rhythm, loud and fast, interrupted by sharp, sudden pain and the dull thud of feet against wood.  _Thump, thump, thump_ , the blood beat and he could not draw enough breath.

Crack!

He heaved for breath, the air knocked from his breast and the  _thump, thump, thump_ ing of his heart raced. No sound made it through the muffling cloth, but a many-voiced shout cut through his muddled mind: the men cried in protest.

Crack!

Aragorn fell.

The ground was firm underneath him. Solid. Supporting. Holding him up, catching him when he fell. Gravel and sand and dust filled his nose, scraped against his cheek, comforting and hard at the same time. An unmoving place in a world that span and span around him.

The guards pulled the last part free and dragged Aragorn away.

They dragged him back to the healer, who grumbled and sent them to clean their prisoner up.

"Did you drag him face down in the mud since you bring him in all filthy?" the healer complained. There was a silence. Aragorn could hear the guards clear their throats, but they did not speak.

" _Hmpf!_  I thought so," the healer said. "Off with you, now, and bring him back clean and ready for me look at."

Their hands were angry and they muttered under their breath, but they did as told.

He was brought back dripping water. The healer harrumphed and grumbled his displeasure at getting the bedclothes wet. But his hands were soft, removing his blindfold and gag. Aragorn clenched his eyes against the light. His breath hitched, but soon he got it under control.

_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out._

Gentle fingers on his face, deftly brushing over the skin, carefully feeling around the cuts, cleaning them, turning his face this way and that. The cleaning stung, but he expected that. The healer gave him water. He drank slowly, in small sips; the healer would not let him drink fast.

"Men of Gondor know not the price of water," he muttered. "And from the look of you our own soldiers have forgotten too. Sip slowly: I will have no more spilled on your account."

"Now," he said, taking the water away. "Any new injuries?"

"No." Aragorn's voice was rough. "No other wounds."

" _Hmpf_." The healer bent to listen to his breath. "Your breath is laboured; more than last night."

Aragorn did not answer; the Haradrim captain arrived. Hewas less than silent; loudly he demanded the healer explain himself.

"This prisoner," the healer said, "has been bound like this since last night."

"That was the orders."

"Since you keep bringing him to me, my guess is that the Lord, or his Mouth, has some interest in keeping him whole." The captain did not answer, but the healer took his silence as answer good enough. "Then you will have to disobey one order or another; his breathing is not as good as I would like, and I must see his chest to tell if there is anything to worry about. For that, you will need to unbind his hands, unless you have a knife that can cut through mail."

"There is no need." Aragorn knew at one point they would strip his clothes from him, but he would rather it was later. "I have no broken bones."

The captain slapped him. "You speak when spoken to," he hissed. Aragorn did not answer.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

"He agrees with you," the healer commented. "You should be more grateful, captain." He sighed. "Very well, keep him bound, but you should bring chains. I will see that he is fed and treated, but I want to wrap those wrists before he leaves. The skin is broken, and untreated they may poison the blood. Go ask the Lord's Mouth, if you so wish."

The captain held the healer's eyes, but the healer did not back down. In the end, it was the captain that relented. "Do not untie him before I return," he said, and left.

"Well, well," the healer muttered. "We will have to do the best we can. One of you can go fetch some food," he told the guards. "The other can help me with him. Down on the bed, face up." He patted the bed, and Aragorn was pulled down.

It was much the same as the night before. The healer poked and prodded and found bruises with unerring fingers, but Aragorn kept a better hold of himself this time. His eyes grew more accustomed to the light and after a time he could look around. He caught sight of Imrahil lying in a bed close by.

The prince was pale and his eyes were closed. He did not move.

"Turn him."

Hands turned him over, pulled at his clothes and the healer's hands continued their work, poking and prodding his back.

"Pull up his… yes, that is better."

Aragorn twisted his head to watch Imrahil, focus his thoughts on him. Imrahil was breathing evenly, as if in deep sleep, and Aragorn watched the rising and falling of his chest. A blanket covered him but it had slid down and Aragorn could see the white linen wrapped around his right shoulder. It was fresh and clean, with a thin red stripe already bleeding through.

"Seems you told the truth," the healer interrupted his thoughts. "You have a nasty bruise along the spine, probably bruised the bone around the ribcage, but nothing broken. Must have been some hard blows to bruise through the mail. Yes, you can pull him up now," he added to the guard.

"Go see why your companion is so long gone," he told the guard once Aragorn was sitting. "He will not be able to escape," he added when the guard protested.

The guard grunted in annoyance, and chained Aragorn to the bed before he left to be safe. The healer shooed him away, and stayed silent and watched Aragorn closely until the guard was gone. Aragorn looked past him, his eyes on Imrahil.

"You are one of his men?" the healer asked.

"No," Aragorn replied. "He pledged he was mine, and a friend." He turned to the healer. "Can you tell me of his wounds?"

"So that you can hope that he lives, or that he dies?"

Aragorn found no answer.

"I am but a lowly healer, or so captain Nagid keeps telling me," the healer remarked. "But I know the colours of Dol Amroth and no mere knight would receive the care I have been ordered to give that man. Or you."

Aragorn held his gaze, but he did not speak.

"You puzzle me, Northman. I would have guessed that one that commands a prince, would be more demanding."

Aragorn laughed at that, bitter and without joy.

"What demands could I make?" he asked. "I laid none on Imrahil, or on any man but those that were mine from the North, nor would I until I had in truth been crowned. He held my word for command none the less. And now? I could not enforce the smallest demand, however much I would wish." He coughed, as if his body would support his words.

"My hopes have failed, Master Healer, and my heart is too sore for tears."

The healer nodded. "But not for grief, I guess." He tipped Aragorn's head to the side and began to clean it. When he spoke again, it was in the same, dry voice as he used when speaking of wounds and illnesses.

...

"Chieftain!"

The Chieftain did not even turn his head. Perhaps he had not heard. Haldor strained to see where the guards took Aragorn, but he could not see far. At least it was Men, not Orcs, who dragged him away.

"There is nothing you can do," the man next to him said. His clothes were muddied and torn and Haldor could not make out any device. "Nothing, except, perhaps, to pray they give him a swift death."

"I know," Haldor answered. "And yet I must try, or utterly despair."

"You have lived your life far from the Shadow," the man stated. "You do not know what waits. Now I wish I had turned back to Cair Andros; perhaps my lord would have been slain had I not been here, not wounded and taken alive."

"Your words are dark, and full of riddles," Haldor said. "Who is your lord? The Chieftain's wounds were not grave, that I could see."

"The lord Imrahil. He was struck down, but I was close and we shielded his body until the Elfstone drew the enemy away. His sons fell defending him, but we were overwhelmed, and his body taken. I heard them shout that he lived, and that he should be brought to the healers." He turned to look at Haldor. "You cannot imagine what terror awaits us."

"You are wrong," Haldor replied. "Evil also touches the lands beyond Gondor, and since I was old enough to wield weapons, I have fought against it. And the remnants of Arnor know the hatred of the Enemy, in some parts perhaps even better than does Gondor: with us was preserved the line of Elendil. Now the line will be lost."

"There will be nothing to preserve it for," the man said.

"Have faith."

"In what?"

Haldor had no reply. All his words were hollow; ash in his mouth, dust on his tongue. He looked west, but all he saw was the battlefield, still littered with dead.

"Then have courage." He found the words at length. "Keep courage, when all else is lost."

"Even hope?" The man shook his head. His voice was bitter.

"Aye," Haldor said. "Courage to bear what must be borne. Even that which can't. Courage is left, and cannot be taken, though even hope be lost."

"You speak like one of the Rohirrim. Or like they would, had they the words to speak it."

"The Chieftain always said that they were wise." Haldor smiled, bleak and small but it was a smile. "My father used to add: 'In their own way.' He found it hard to see wisdom beyond the Dúnedain, unless it was among the Elves. And not always there, either."

The other man made a grimace, perhaps it was meant to be a smile. Then it faded. "You do not know," he said again.

"I do know!" Haldor shouted, heedless of the danger. If they had been closer, he would have shaken the man. "You fear for prince Imrahil? There is no Man the Enemy hates more than the heir of Isildur and Elendil. Why do you think  _your_  lord had the heralds announce the King Elessar's name? That name kept the Enemy's eye on us. Do not…" he choked on his words.

"Do not tell me what I know or do not about the horrors of the Dark Land." He swallowed and his hands shook.

The man did not answer, and they sat in silence until the guards returned.

…

"My father, a merchant, happened to be in Umbar when the Men of Gondor attacked."

Aragorn could not guess why he told this tale, or if is only was a habit of the healer to speak while tending his patients.

"They still speak with hate about the captain who led the fleet," the healer continued, "but my father once told that he could not have been the monster of the tales. He never saw the captain, but my father always said that you could know a leader by his men.

"During the attack, my father was caught by one of the soldiers. Unarmed, and unused to fighting, my father threw himself at the soldier's feet, and swore by the Great Lord that none of his sons, should he beget any, would ever lift a weapon, if only the soldier would show him mercy and let him live.

"I do not know if the soldier understood my father's words, for he never learned the northern tongue. He told us that he expected to be struck down, or else be made a slave, but the soldier left him, offering no reassurance, and no harm. My father returned home, to find his first-born son mere days old."

He paused and regarded Aragorn. Then he said: "My brother did not honour my father's pledge; he fell at the taking of Osgiliath. But if not for the mercy of the soldier, I would not have been born. And a thought has come to me, that I may repay the debt of my life to you, if you so wish."

"Then tell me of Imrahil's wounds," Aragorn said.

"Do you value my life so cheap?" the healer asked. "I would offer more; for life I would offer death. Both his and yours."

Aragorn was silent.

"With him it would be easy," the healer said. "And even painless. Too much of the herb that eases pain, and none to fight his fever. The captain will berate me, but I do not think I will suffer much punishment; few healers have my skill.

"Your will be harder. A poison in the water, or the food, I think. Painful, but still; you would no longer suffer the shame of defeat."

Aragorn closed his eyes. "You would suffer more than a reprimand," he said. "Sauron wants me for some purpose, or I would already be dead. And he wants me well, or I would not received care for a wound so small. Would you repay your life with your death?" A desperate hope fluttered and died in his voice.

The healer crushed it utterly.

"No," he said. "Perhaps if you had been that soldier, but I like living, and much as my father taught me to honour my debts, he also taught me to heed the Great Lord's will. The tale, then."

He continued to tend Aragorn while he told him of the Prince's wounds. Once, when Aragorn let his impatience for the tale creep into his voice, the healer chuckled: a warm, soft sound.

"I wondered when the demand would come. None of the great men of Gondor would bow to one with no pride." Aragorn mumbled in answer, but the healer took no notice of it. He continued listing Imrahil's wounds: a blow to the head, a cut to the shoulder: that last them most grievous hurt.

"I see," Aragorn said. "Will his arm heal to usefulness again?"

"If given time to heal," the healer answered. "It might. But likely not to full use."

Aragon said nothing, and the healer fell silent as well. He took a cup and lifted it to Aragorn's lips. Crystal water, cool and clean as water from a mountain-stream. Aragorn drank all the healer would give him. When the cup was lowered for the last time, the remaining thirst was gone with it.

"My thanks."

The healer huffed. "The soldiers should be back soon with food; if the Lord in truth want you to live, then starving you would not serve his purpose. But have you any pressing need?"

Aragorn looked at him.

"Have you…" The healer gestured towards a bench where several pots were stacked.

Aragorn looked away.

"I will take care of it," the healer said.

The only mercy was that the guards did not return until he was finished.

…

When the guards returned, they were new, and many, Haradrim and Easterlings mixed. Haldor wondered why there were no orcs. They walked among the prisoners, choosing those that had but small wounds; there were none that had been taken unhurt.

Haldor was among the first they pointed out. He was released and hauled to his feet, made to stand beside the road. Soon a small group had been gathered, and it grew as the guards picked more and more men. Haldor could see that other groups were forming further down the line; more prisoners had been taken than he first had thought. He turned his head back towards the Black Gate. He could see more now that he was standing, but he caught no sign of his Chieftain.

"Hear!" one of the soldiers shouted. "You have marched against the Great Lord without just cause or provocation. You shall therefore serve Him that you may repay this wrong."

None spoke. They stood in mute rebellion, the people of many lands and places, from north and west and south.

"You will obey," the soldier continued. "And your first task begins today." Haldor saw the hand-drawn carts, and knew before they were told, what that task would be.

The field was littered with dead. Sorting through them; a task without end. The Easterlings and Haradrim fallen were taken to be buried after the custom of their people. The orcs were piled to burn, and the rest… the rest they were ordered to dump in the pools and marchlands around the slag-hills where they have made their stand. Few refused the task, and many grieved. The prisoners grew grim as the day grew old.

Haldor saw what they did to those that refused, and he remembered his Chieftain. How he had been brought, and how he had been taken away. And how they had silenced them. And he worked with no protest, sorting through the dead, separating friend from foe. But he closed their eyes the same, and wished them peace in death, as they had not had in life. All but the orcs – them he left, and thanked the Powers that he was not chosen to carry  _them_  away.

That day he found one of his fellow Rangers. Seron, who always spoke of his wife; Haldor had never been able to listen to him with patience, and avoided him when he could. Now Seron lay at the foot of the slag-hill, killed in that first, devastating wave when they knew all was lost.

"May the voices of the waters be with you," Haldor mumbled. "May they carry you beyond sorrow, and bring your loved ones to you." He closed the dead eyes and sighed. "Forgive me, that I did not listen to your speech more often." His eyes were dry, as if they had forgotten how to weep.

He laid him across his shoulder and lifted him up. Haldor looked around. He was close enough to the pools to manage the walk; he would not dump Seron in a cart with the rest. No guards stopped him to ask where he was going until he came to the edge of the field.

"Stop!"

He did.

"Where are you going?" the guard asked. "The bodies go over there."

"I lost my way," Haldor answered. He kept his head down, did not look at the Easterling. "It will not happen again."

"It better not," the guard said. "Or you will not live to make it a third. Drop that body and show me your arm."

Haldor laid Seron down carefully. The Easterling grabbed his arm and and pulled him up. Impatient. He pushed up Haldor's sleeve and drew a dagger. "You get two warnings," he said. "No more." And the dagger sliced skin.

It was a shallow cut, for show, and not meant to cause harm. Haldor did not move or flinch. When the guard ordered him to pick up his burden once more, he did. He did not stop to bind his wound, and he did not speak. But he shook. The Easterling did not even reach his chin.

The dead were thrown into the mire. Several carts, each so large that two men were needed to draw them, transported the bodies to the edge of the Marches where a steep hill led down into the wetlands. There they were emptied, the bodies left to tumble down and be swallowed by the pools. A little to the side, a line of people formed. They carried the bodies that lay too close, or so the guards deemed, to waste the carts on them.

Haldor joined the line, and the Easterling left him. At the end, two Haradrim soldiers watched the men: one young, the other older. The prisoners worked in pairs, carrying one man between them, and the younger guard stared at Haldor when he came, carrying his burden alone. The guard opened his mouth to speak, but the older guard laid his hand on the younger's arm and stopped him. The two spoke, but Haldor did not know the tongue.

"Go on," the younger said, and Haldor walked past them, to the edge of the slope, over it and down.

Halfway down he heard the guard shout. Small rocks, shingle and sand moved under his feet, and came tumbling down from above. Haldor was surefooted, more so than the guards, and he reached the bottom of the slope, and the murky pool that lay there, long before they reached him.

He shifted Seron from his shoulders and down to the ground. He knelt there, beside the pool, and knew there was no time, and yet he was unable to let the body go. He heard the footsteps of the guards, closer with each breath, and still he knelt, and held on to the body.

The voice of the younger guard rang behind him. "What do you…?"

It was cut off, and a low mumble followed. Then the sound of retreating feet, and the shingle and sand moving.

"Do not test my patience too far, Northman."

It was the older man. He spoke the Common Tongue haltingly. Broken, but the meaning was clear. Haldor mumbled the words for the dead, and let Seron sink beneath the surface of the pool. He watched the waters close, and fall still.

"Be at peace, kinsman," he whispered.

…

"Bring him!"

The order was short, and the guards were quick to follow it; no soldier would laze about when their captain spoke in such anger. Fed and watered, his wounds cleaned, Aragorn was brought back to the Mouth.

Again he was forced to listen in silence. Again he was forced to meet the other's eyes. Again the Mouth could not hold his gaze long.

That was his only victory — he could glean nothing of use from the Mouth's gloating — but it was a victory of sort. So they bound his eyes and dragged him away.

They did not drag him far. Bare, wooden boards under him, and iron bars around him. A cage, by the feel of it, too small to stretch out or sit fully up, and they left him there still bound.

He could hear footsteps around him; could feel them through the floor of the cage. The boards were rough under him and they scraped against his cheeks whenever he turned his head to listen. He could not hear the other prisoners, only the soldiers moving around. But he had not been allowed to lie down since before the battle, not truly lie down to rest, and despite the nuisance of the hard wood and the irksomeness of all the small things he could not relieve, he fell asleep.

Slowly his body relaxed in his bonds. His breath grew even, and the noises stilled. The darkness behind his eyelids deepened and for a time, he could forget in dreamless sleep.

…

"Show me your arm."

Haldor stood and turned to face the guard. He held out his arm, where the cut was fresh but closing. Or should have. The guard took hold of it, but did not look at the arm. Instead he searched Haldor's face. The set of his jaw. The tears behind his eyes.

"What is 'kinsman'?"

"A relative," Haldor answered. "One that shares your blood."

"Do not all share blood, Northman?" the guard replied. "You mean family?"

"Yes."

"Family," the guard repeated. "I lost my brother in this war. And the son of my uncle's wife." He held on to Haldor's arm a moment longer. "Do not find more family on this field. It is bad luck." He let go of the arm. His fingers were smeared with blood. He rubbed them together, studying the freshness. He looked back up at Haldor.

"Do not share more blood, it may grow too thin."

Haldor nodded. "My thanks."

"Go now. Back to work."

Haldor climbed back up the slope, and continued his task.

It was near the slag-heaps that he found him, buried underneath a great troll. One single foot was all that he could see. One naked, furry foot.

"Ah Chieftain, you will grieve," Haldor muttered. He dug, and heaved, and spent his grief in the task of rolling the troll away. He picked the small body up and carried the Knight of Gondor from the field. Mud and mire clung to his feet, made him stumble, made each step a battle.

"Fear not, little one," he whispered. "Yours were the better fate." And it seemed to him as if the hobbit smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on names and language:
> 
> I have, to the best of my abilities, used Sindarin for the rangers or the people of Gondor, or found names that Tolkien used. For the Haradrim I have used old Hebrew as a base, but I try to avoid known biblical names, as I do not wish for associations to that.


	3. Cair Andros

The cleaning of the field took many days. Haldor toiled there from first light until the sun set. He saw the Orcs gathering, and Men as well; a second army that joined those left. But he did not see the Chieftain again, nor did he hear any tidings of him.

On the second day after the battle the wounded prisoners were moved, taken into the Black Land, most of them never to be seen again. They numbered a third of the survivors.

Haldor guessed that his Chieftain had been taken with the others, but Aragorn was not moved. He was kept in the cage, far from the other prisoners. He therefore knew but little of the movements of troops that the others saw. He could hear the marching of orcs and men when they passed by, but he did not know that the Enemy used the days to gather another army to strike against Gondor.

On the third day the army moved.

…

That day and the next the army marched. The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr took his time, confident in his lord's victory, and the army moved slower than it otherwise would. What if Minas Tirith had time to order her defences? No city or strong place could withstand Mordor now, and in the end, there would be no place to hide for those that chose to run.

They entered Ithilien on the second day of the march. The sweet smell of the woods brought some comfort to the prisoners.

Imrahil woke to the sound of bird-song.

The sun shone on his face. He could feel the warmth on his skin, and the light was red behind his eyelids. Fresh air carried the scent of herbs and green things: the heavy scent of oregano mixed with the fresh, green smell of dew in the grass. The air was still, and cool like in the early morning.

He moved to stretch, and stopped at once. It _hurt_.

There was a hollow feeling at the back of his throat, and it was gritty with sand and dust. Just moving a little strained sore muscle, worst in his stomach and between his shoulder blades. The right side of his neck and his right shoulder twanged with stinging pain and he felt utterly wretched.

He could not distinguish between hunger-pains and the soreness of his stomach. How long since he had last eaten? Surely not long enough for these cramps.

Imrahil opened his eyes. Bars around him. The soft clink of chains, and there; a clang of iron. He remembered.

They had lost.

And now? He was a prisoner, but the air, and birdsong, was wrong. It smelled of Ithilien, not Mordor. He looked beyond the bars, and saw tall elms and evergreens, birches and alders, and silver poplars with white leaves and dark trunks. The sun shone upon the tree-tops.

He tried to move his head. Slowly, inches at a time as to not bring back the pain. The air stirred, and brought with it more smells: smoke and charred meat, and the smell of unwashed bodies and oil and metal. The smells of a marching army.

Imrahil could see them now. Haradrim soldiers camped close to his cage, Easterlings further off, and at the other side of the camp the twisted shapes of orcs. No guards he could see; was the enemy so certain of victory?

A muffled sound behind him made him turn his head. He grunted with the effort, but then he saw his fellow prisoner and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Lord Elessar.”

His voice was but a whisper, but the king heard him.

“My lord, are you hurt?”

A shaking of the head. Imrahil could see that he wore a bandage that covered his eyes.

“Are you sure?”

A nod. Imrahil was not sure he believed it, but he was tired and ached. For a time he rested, but something nagged at him. He tried to see if there were any other prisoners.

“Lord, do you know if any others were taken? I can see none close, and no other cages. Did any escape?”

The king made a sound. Imrahil turned towards again him to ask another question, and fell silent. The king could not answer him.

“Forgive me, lord Elessar. My mind is not clear. I remember falling. I remember the confusion and chaos of the battle, and the blowing of horns. I recall the beats of hooves on the ground right before the dark. I have a distant memory of burning pain and a voice calling in a language I did not understand. I have fevered, disjointed glimpses of hands feeding me, and one clear memory of a face, but I do not know to whom it belongs, nor when I saw it. I …

“I think I have been very ill.” Imrahil fell silent for a while. The king nodded, but whether it meant forgiveness or just an agreement of his last statement, Imrahil could not guess. 

Soon the camp stirred, and the soldiers made ready to march. It was the first time Imrahil was awake when fed. It was a short, brutish affair, humiliating to the point where he wondered if it would be better to go hungry. The king was silent; enduring with a patience Imrahil did not know how to read.

He drifted between sleep and the waking world most of the day. He spoke little, even when awake; the king tensed whenever he spoke, and Imrahil would trail off.

…

The next day, when the army halted for their midday rest, they came for the king.

Imrahil had gained enough strength to sit while a healer treated him, but he could do little else. In the small space they were both jolted by the guards, and Imrahil had not breath to speak with until after the king was gone.

“Where are they taking him?” he asked. “For what purpose?”

“I am but a healer, and not the only one,” the healer answered. He carefully unravelled the bandages wrapped around Imrahil's shoulder. “I am rarely called on for the questioning of prisoners. Sometimes, if there is anything left to save or the prisoner has some value, a healer will be called for to undo their harm. But many are just handed to the orcs.

“The orcs have been restless of late. Perhaps the Lieutenant wants to pacify them.”

“No.” Imrahil shook his head. “Not him. Not the king.”

The healer shrugged. “I am but a healer. If that is your king, then he likely has knowledge needed for the battles.” And he said no more. His prodding fingers soon drove all else from Imrahil's mind.

…

They brought the king back well before the break ended. Imrahil saw no new marks on him, but the king was tense. And his mouth was free. He said nothing while the guards manhandled him back into the cage. They withdrew, but not far.

“Sire?”

“I am not, and will not now, be king, Imrahil.” The king paused, and Imrahil answered before he could speak again.

“I hold you my liege-lord still.”

The king shook his head, but said nothing to it. “Are the guards close?” he asked instead.

“Close enough to see, and hear unless we keep our voices low, sire,” Imrahil answered.

The king sighed. “I guessed as much.” He paused again. “I do not know how long they will let us speak, but I am guessing that it will not be for long: our speech must be quick. Other prisoners there are, but it is my hope that Éomer escaped.”

“The horses would bear them swiftly, if they managed to break free,” Imrahil said. “And if he was taken, would he not be here?”

“Perhaps, if he could be of use for the Enemy, but it is Gondor they will march against first.”

“And what use have they planned for us, since we are here?”

The king turned his head away and said nothing.

“Sire,” Imrahil pressed.

“Can you not guess?”

“Faramir will not bow so easily.”

“That is my comfort.” But the king did not sound comforted.

“Sire, what did they want with you? Did you gleam any notion of their plans?”

The king shook his head. “Do not ask,” he said. “The Mouth _wants_ me to speak of it. He hopes, perhaps, that you will sway me. Or I you. Why else would he give me speech? Why else have his soldiers spy on his own prisoners?” He let his head fall back and rest against the bars. “No, I will not play his games.“

“Sire, what need has the Enemy to play games with us? He has won.” Imrahil closed his eyes. Just one brief moment. No time to mourn, yet thick, leaden grief settled over him. Gnawed at his guts – unless it was the soreness speaking – and made even breathing heavy and dead.

“I know.”

Imrahil opened his eyes at the reply. He could feel the tension pouring off the king. Suppressed anger – or grief.

“I know full well that he has won, and that he has no need to play games on us. But his Mouth does, and… I will not serve him. Not by any choice that is mine to make. I have failed in my task, but I will not become a pawn of the Enemy. Not that. Never that.”

Impotent fury. Imrahil had felt that before. “I will not ask again, sire.”

“Aragorn. We are close enough in rank that you could call me by name, Imrahil, and the Mouth does not use that name in mockery.”

Imrahil nodded, and forgot that the king could not see his gesture. “Lord Aragorn.”

The king smiled.

“Thank you,” he said.

The birds were quiet. For a while, the only sounds were the murmur from the army and the whisper of leaves. The soft clink of chains.

Imrahil looked back to the king. His face was set, but he was moving his hands. Or trying to.

"Lord Aragorn?"

"Imrahil," the king acknowledged. "What are the guards doing?"

"Nothing. They watch us, but they have not moved. I do not know if they can hear us." There were more clinks of chains. "Sire?"

"Can you see, or reach, anything that could be of use?"

"Of use to do what, lord?"

"Pick the locks," the king answered. There was a note of impatience in his voice, as if Imrahil should have known.

"I fear that it a skill my father did not see fit for me to learn."

"That is unfortunate," the king answered. "But if you can get me a pin, or…"

"You can pick a lock?" He remembered to keep his voice low, but even so, he could not hide his outrage for the king. What skill was lock picking for a king to have?

But it brought another smile, and a small laughter, to the Lord Aragorn's mouth. "It is a useful skill," he said. "And one my Rangers made sure I had. My father, I am told, was most adept."

"Your _father_ taught you lock picking?"

"No." More clinks. "Arathorn, my sire, died when I was two, and my foster father shared your father's view. But not all in his household did, and the Rangers, when I returned to them, completed my skills. It proved useful many times."

Imrahil closed his eyes. What king…? But he could not deny it was a useful skill right now. If they had had anything with which to pick the locks. And not been surrounded by soldiers. He opened his eyes to see again.

"Aragorn," he said, and the king smiled. "It is no use. Even if we can free ourselves, there is still the cage, and the soldiers."

"Are there always guards?"

"There is no need: the army is all around us."

"No pin?"

Imrahil did not answer, but Aragorn continued as if he guessed the answer. "The shackles are too small to force my hands through. If I could break them, perhaps… but a pin would be better, or a nail from the boards?"

"The boards are secured with wooden pegs," Imrahil answered. "My lord, you cannot mean to…"

"What are our chances to open the cage?"

Something must have happened. The king had been silent since Imrahil had woken — in truth, he had not had much choice — but he had not fought his bonds like he did now. Fey, almost, he seemed.

"Aragorn."

He paused his struggles for a moment.

"You will only cause yourself hurt." Imrahil spoke quickly, before the king began anew. "The armies of Mordor surround us; we will not be able to escape the camp, even if we should be able to escape the cage."

"I have done it before."

Imrahil did not know what to answer to that. "You have been caught and escaped the Enemy before?"

Aragorn shrugged. "Not like this." He began fighting his bonds again, but with less force. "The Enemy did not know that I lived. But I have escaped from enemy camps before. If the cage…"

"Your people did not keep you safe?"

"Imrahil."

He fell silent.

"Is there a chance we can get the cage opened?"

"Will you break your hands to do it?" Imrahil asked back.

"I do not know if I have the leverage," Aragorn answered.

"I have no strength to help," Imrahil said. "I cannot sit without help. And I cannot see anything with which you could pick the lock. And we would be seen, and stopped, long before that."

Aragorn's efforts stilled. "I do not think I can get my hands through the cuffs with no help." He gave one last, angry yank at the chains. "Imrahil, I cannot…"

"What did they want with you, sire? What did they do?"

But the king shook his head. "The Mouth did nothing."

"Then, lord Aragorn, what will he do?"

But Aragorn did not answer, and did not speak again. They sat in silence until the army broke camp, and the king again had no choice but silence.

It is said that the Ringfinder, old Master Bilbo, once commented that days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to. But there are days one would not want to live through that still are quickly told, and dull to hear. The days when the army marched to Minas Tirith were like this for Aragorn and Imrahil; long to live, and short to tell. The days were the same, and nothing new happened, but for one exception.

…

“We are near Car Andros,” Imrahil said.

It was the evening the thirtieth of March, and though they did not know it, Éomer would reach Minas Tirith the next day. Aragorn tilted his head in answer. “I do not know how much you can sense,” Imrahil continued, “but I think they mean to conquer it before they march on Minas Tirith. Whoever leads is certain of victory, and unconcerned with delay.”

Aragorn nodded his agreement.

Imrahil closed his eyes. Even that small speech left him weary. But he had to know. “Will they have warning? Did any escape?”

Silence answered, and he waited for it to end. It did not. “Do you know?” he asked. The lord Aragorn gave a muffled sound and Imrahil forced his eyes open to look at him.

Of course.

“Forgive me, lord Aragorn. My mind is clouded, and I forgot.”

Aragorn sighed. Fever from the wound, he guessed. Perhaps it would be better for the Prince if the fever took him.

Soon after the cage came to a halt. It was not the halt for the night, too much noise and running and shouting of orders. Before the din ended, they were both taken from the cage. Aragorn could not sense whether they both were brought together, but he needed not understand the soldiers to guess where he was taken.

They made him kneel, again, and held him, again. The gag was taken away; they wanted him to speak. He coughed, and worked his jaw loose, but he did not speak. He tried to hear the people around him, but it was too much noise. A hand took hold of his chin and tilted his head up.

“Hast thou had time to think?” the Mouth asked. “Hast thou considered the benefits that the Great Lord offers thee?”

Aragorn stayed silent.

“It is but a small thing He asks. And thou art his prisoner; it is not fitting that thou dost what he commands?”

“And my ransom is to give him what he will have to fight for, or is that only a part? No. We would not give in to his demand before, and I will not do it now.”

“Wilst thou not spare thy own men?” the Mouth asked. “Wilst thou not spare thy vassal, who didst thy bidding before thou claimed his oath? Give the word, would-be king, and I will spare them.”

“And what would you have them do, when they have surrendered?” It was easier, now, to sense the people around him. Two soldiers, and the guards; orcs close by – he could smell them – and the Mouth standing so close that he could feel the air move when the other did.

“They would enter the service of the Lord. As will all.”

Aragorn was silent. “I will speak to the men,” he said at length. “I do not know whether they will obey.”

He was lifted to his feet and taken to the walls. There the rag was taken from his eyes and he blinked against the light. Too long in darkness.

“Speak.”

Aragorn swallowed. The guards held him tight, and beside him Imrahil was held the same way. But his voice, when he spoke, was clear and without doubt.

“I am Aragorn Elessar,” he said. “The Elfstone of Elendil's house. At my word you came here, to hold Car Andros in the last defence of Gondor and of Rohan.” He paused, and the Mouth hissed at him to order their surrender.

“We failed. Now keep your oaths; defend this place! Do not surrender, even at the cost of our lives, or yours.” He steeled himself, but no blow came.

“You would follow this man?” the Mouth said. “Even when he orders your death?”

The men on the walls were silent, but they did not open the gates, nor did they surrender. Not when the Mouth promised their destruction, nor when he threatened the life of his hostages.

The Mouth turned to his captains. “Tear down the walls,” he said. “Slaughter all you find inside. If the orcs want any of the wounded, they can have them, but none of the men are to live when we leave.”

Aragorn and Imrahil were dragged away from the walls. The Mouth left with them; his captains and army could take the fort with little effort. Or so all thought.

Imrahil, weak from his wound, was taken back to the cage, but Aragorn was made to kneel in sight of the fort. The Mouth had an open tent pitched there, so that he could watch the battle and plan his tactics. It amused him to have Aragorn kneel there, beside his chair, and force him to see the battle unfold.

The battle did not so much unfold, as it erupted in noise and screams and the clang of weapons. Orcs swarmed the walls and were met with a hail of arrows. But soon the arrows ran out, and orcs and men alike advanced again. High ladders were raised, only to be thrown down by the defenders.

Aragorn watched in grim satisfaction; the men held, and the enemy was thrown back again and again.

“It is a pity,” the Mouth said, “that such brave men must die.”

Aragorn did not answer. He kept his eyes on the battle. One of the soldiers– an orc if his eyes did not deceive him– reached top parapet, his shape clear against the sky. A spear stabbed him and he toppled back, falling down into the churning mass below. The ladder followed him a moment later.

The Mouth slid his hand under Aragorn's chin, a light pressure to turn his face to his.

Aragorn did not budge. He moved his head away and kept watching. The hand latched on to his hair and the Mouth dragged him close.

“You will see what I tell you to see, and speak when I wish you to,” he hissed. Then his voice changed back to that calm, mocking tone Aragorn recognized. “I said: it is a pity that such brave men must die. Didst thou not realise, Elessar, that their surrender would not be to ransom thy life, but their?”

“They would have fought, no matter what I had ordered,” Aragorn answered. “And they are holding.”

“Not for long.”

Aragorn caught his eyes and held them. “They will hold longer than you have guessed. They know that every enemy they kill is one less to harass their families. Every moment they keep you here is one moment more for Faramir to escape. They know that if they throw down their weapons, they will be slain.

“No, you, who have given up your name to Sauron, you do not know pity. There is nothing to pity in those men. Theirs is the unsung honour, more worthy than any title your master bestows.”

The Mouth flinched from his gaze. His fist tightened in Aragorn's hair, and then he let go of it. Aragorn fell. He hit his head, but the earth was soft there, with only pebbles and grass and sand. No roots, no rocks. He rolled to his side. The fort was more difficult to see, but he watched what he could.

The Mouth ignored him.

The battle continued into the night. The nigh-eyes of the orcs kept them fighting, with few lulls in the battle. Aragorn could hear the battle-noise, but when the sun set he could no longer see the fight. Scattered fires, or torches – he could not say which – showed where the battlements were. The Mouth withdrew – he had not tried to make Aragorn speak again – and still Aragorn was left there, lying on the ground.

He closed his eyes during one of the few lulls. Sleep was close, but before he could drift off, he was hoisted up unto his knees. The guards had not left, and they made him kneel the rest of the night.

In the morning the fort still stood.

 The Mouth swore at his captains and ordered the siege-weapons to be rolled up, and for the archers to send volleys of arrows over the walls while the weapons were prepared.

“My lord,” one of the orc-captains said. “Their shields are strong; we will only give them new arrows. Now they have none left.”

“And still they repel you. Do as I say. And send the vanguard to take the road through Osgiliath. They are not to attack Minas Tirith until the main army arrives, but they are to prevent any attempt to escape.”

The captains left to give the new orders. Soon horns and trumpets rang to call the soldiers back. A short respite for the men inside. Aragorn watched as the archers lined up, and a battering ram was brought from the camp. It was not half as huge as the one that had shattered the gates of Minas Tirith, but still it was heavy. With enough force, it would bring down the walls. If they could ford the river with it.

The archers sent their arrows flying over the walls. Two full volleys, then they broke to let the ram through.

White water whipped around the wading orcs. They hauled and heaved at the ram; the crossing was slow, and it looked to Aragorn as if the riverbed tugged at its wheels, slowing it further. Halfway across, the arrows returned to harrow the orcs. Less dense than before, the arrows still hit their targets. The orcs halted, and then they were forced to withdraw– or fall.

“It will be too late.”

The Mouth turned to Aragorn. “I did not command thee to speak.”

“You wish me to,” Aragorn answered. “Or you would have gagged me.”

He kept his eyes on the battle, deliberately not looking away. The archers drew and sent a new rain of arrows towards the fort. Under its cover the orcs waded back into the water, and with them walked tall men from the south carrying shields. In the water the shield-wall could not close completely, but the archers did not let up to let the defenders gather arrows to shot back. The ram reached the island where the walls of the fort rose up from the water's edge.

“Speak.”

Aragorn continued to watch. The archers stopped shooting once the battering ram and its wielders were in place; the shield-wall around and powerful hill-trolls that swung it with the force of many men.

The Mouth moved in the corner of his eye, and Aragorn tensed. Nothing. Nothing happened.

The men on the walls threw down rocks and broken stones on the attackers, but their shields held, and the ram battered against the stone.

Thump. Thump.

“The walls will break…”

Thump. Thump.

“…and my men will flood the fort…”

Thump. Thump.

“…and they will tear it apart…”

Thump. Thump.

“…and kill all inside.”

Thump.

“It will still be too late; you waited too long. Warning will already have reached Minas Tirith, even your vanguard will not reach it in time to hinder flight. Faramir…”

“Will have no warning before the Great Lord shows his might. There is none to warn him.”

“Some will have escaped.”

“Whom will that be?”

“Éomer king…”

“Lies dead, his horse shot from under him.”

“Imrahil's sons…”

“Fell protecting their father.”

“One of his knights…”

“Captured or killed; they refused to abandon him.”

“One of my men…”

“Would not leave their precious heirling.”

“The eagles…”

“Shot down. The orcs feasted on their wings.”

Thump. Thump.

Up on the walls the men sat fire to great vats, and poured the burning waste down on those below. It caught the orcs close to the wall, the men and their shields, clinging to their skin. They rolled in the river where they were trampled and drowned. The last drops oozed down the walls and clung, oil-like, to the stone in burning flames. But the ram battered on, burning at the point. Thump, thump, it knocked against the wall.

“And now thy men weaken their walls with fire and filth. Conquered by their own defiance, even as we speak.”

Aragorn turned to stare at his enemy. The Mouth of Sauron smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on names:  
> Rafa' – the old Haradric healer. His name is taken from the Old Hebrew word for healer, though I have not used the usual English transcription of the Hebrew letters. The apostrophe is used for the letter ayin, which is an unvoiced glottis-stop, a kind of swallowing sound.   
> Notes of canon:  
> A lot of the happenings in this chapter are conjure based on this episode from LotR:  
> “So desolate were those places and so deep the horror that lay on them that some of the host were unmanned, and they could neither walk nor ride further north.  
> Aragorn looked at them, and there was pity in his eyes rather than wrath; for these were young men from Rohan, from Westfold far away, or husbandmen from Lossarnach, and to them Mordor had been from childhood a name of evil, and yet unreal, a legend that had no part in their simple life; and now they walked like men in a hideous dream made true, and they understood not this war nor why fate should lead them to such a pass.  
> 'Go!' said Aragorn. 'But keep what honour you may, and do not run! And there is a task which you may attempt and so be not wholly shamed. Take your way south-west till you come to Cair Andros, and if that is still held by enemies, as I think, then re-take it, if you can; and hold it to the last in defence of Gondor and Rohan!'  
> Then some being shamed by his mercy overcame their fear and went on, and the others took new hope, hearing of a manful deed within their measure that they could turn to, and they departed.” (RotK, The Black Gate Opens)  
> The Tale of Years (LotR, App B), states that an army from the Morannon took Cair Andros on the Dawnless Day (March 10th). We do not hear about how it went for the men that were sent to re-take it, but Cair Andros is mentioned several times later, and clearly in the hands of the Men of Gondor so it is likely that they succeeded. That is, at least, the interpretation I have followed here.  
> “days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to.” Taken from The Hobbit, A Short Rest.  
> A/N: I want to thank the usual suspects for the help with this chapter: the people on the Garden of Ithilien, JAUL,  
> and Phalanx for making me take that new look of the first chapters, and I hope the revisions have resulted in a better told story, even if the pace will never be very fast, I fear.


	4. Into Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and warnings: see endnotes

From the account given by Erinç son of Igar, who led the archers:

_“The fort fell in the evening, far later than we had expected. This was in great part due to the orcs' inability to scale the walls; time and again they withdrew because the resistance was so great that their lives were in danger. My company was called in at the beginning of the fight, but after the enemy had exhausted their supply of arrows, we were dismissed so as not to replenish them. We were able to sleep for most of the night, and were not called upon until the morning._

_“We were recalled to duty the next morning to provide cover for the battling ram. We kept up a steady rain of arrows until the ram was in place and the shield-carriers had formed a wall and roof._

_“The enemy tried to break through the shields with arrows and rocks, but the roof held. They then showed their cruelty by pouring hot and burning filth down, forcing the orcs and some of the shield-carriers to retreat. This did not stop the ram, which the Hill-trolls swung until the walls gave in, weakened by fire and the constant hammering._

_“The wall was breached an hour before sunset. Both the orcs and the fighters on foot then took the fort and slaughtered the enemy in revenge for our losses. The fort was levelled to the ground, and the few wounded enemies that still lived were given into the hands of the orcs. They died within the hour._

_My men were pleased by that, for the screams had been most disturbing._

_The orcs grumbled about the useless_ tarks _whose flesh was spoiled. The commanders had little patience with this, since it was the orcs own actions that had caused this. It took a few whippings to make them fall back in line._

_We crossed the river before midnight, but it was morning before the whole army reached the western shore. The wagons took a little longer since the riverbed between the east side and the island was muddy after the fighting. The cage containing the prisoners and one of the food-wagons were stuck in the mud midway through. The cage was at length pulled free, but the wagon was lost and the food destroyed by the water._

_A few hours after midday, we left the ruined fort behind. All troops were ordered to march, and we did not leave any behind to secure the crossing. I looked back once, and saw the carrion-birds stooped down on the island. The air was black with them.”_

…

This account is one of the few that has survived, and the one that is closest to the king's own account. The king never spoke about the fate of the men that held the fort.

The army reached Minas Tirith on the evening after six days of travelling. The darkness had overtaken them on the second day, and now it spread out before them. The vanguard stood outside the broken Gates, waiting. Slowly the main army took their places until it was positioned. The Mouth ordered fires lit and that the tropes rested, and did not attack.

The fires burned the whole night.

…

The cage with the prisoners stood at the back of the lines, left there when the army arrived, and nothing more was done with it. No food or water given, no healer came. Aragorn and Imrahil passed the night in silence. Aragorn was given no choice, and though Imrahil had grown better during the travel, he was still weak from his wound.

The darkness lasted throughout the whole battle. The prisoners could hear when the attack began, and Imrahil could see fires, but the walls were too far away. The swishing of arrows and the cries of the wounded were all that could be heard for a long time. Then the clang of metal rang across the fields, distant and muddled in Aragorn's ears.

“The fight must have reached the gates,” Imrahil said. “I do not know how many men are left, but they must have run out of arrows. It is too dark to see if any banners are flying from the Citadel. I cannot guess at who is leading the defence.”

Aragorn nodded. He strained to discern the progress of the fight, but a long time passed where he could hear no difference in the muted cries and the beating of metal.

“The light near the gates grows fewer,” Imrahil said. “And I can see fires spread on the first level.”

_They have taken the Gate._ Aragorn tried to speak around the gag, but it was of no use. A fortnight, and he still had not learned, but still tried.

…

The sounds from the battle waxed and waned. Imrahil would guess at the enemy's progress through the City by tracing the lights, but little could be known for certain, other than the enemy slowly fought their way up through the circles of the city. Darkness covered the land, and even Imrahil could not tell how long the battle had lasted.

Once during that time they were given water, but Aragorn guessed, and indeed he guessed right, that the battle lasted more than a day.

Thirst and hunger plagued them, and Aragorn found it difficult to stay awake. The battle-sounds grew distant and even Imrahil's words were hard to hear. He fell in and out of sleep, though it was fitful and gave little rest. Now he wished they had stripped him of his mail; the padded collar that protected his neck had been cut away and a broken ring on his hauberk rubbed against the skin, so that it was raw and bleeding. Every movement tore more of the skin.

A muffled groan had Aragorn turn his head, and the ring racked across raw flesh.

“I cannot see the fighting,” Imrahil said. His voice was strained and he paused, breathing loud. “I do not think the Citadel is overrun, but…”

_The gates have fallen, one by one._ Aragorn finished in his thoughts. _The last gate may be the hardest, but they cannot hold long with the rest of the City taken. They will starve, unless they escape through hidden doors; if any path out is left._ He shifted, and the ring scraped. It should have been no more than an annoyance, at this place and at this time, but it was not.

_Why did he_ _not bring us,_ he wondered. _Did Cair Andros discourage him from trying to use us again?_ But that made little sense, for why then take them this far?

“Soldiers,” Imrahil warned. “They are many, and come this way, bringing torches. Men from the south and east, but I see no Orcs.”

Aragorn could hear them barking orders to their guards, and he was not surprised when metal rang and chains rattled, and they were dragged outside.

The ground was soft under his knees. Damp, and muddy. Hands tugged on the blindfold and he winced; the movement rubbed the mail against his neck, again.

"Pretty them up," one of the soldiers grumbled. "As if we have not better use."

"Do as you are told!" The voice was stern. "The Lieutenant want them to be recognised — especially the king."

“Why would they not recognise their king?”

“He has not been for long. They have been ruled by stewards for as long as can be remembered; no words about any king until a few weeks ago, before he tried to attack the Gate."

"Can't be a very smart king, to try that.”

The soldier was cut off. Aragorn could hear a yelp, and felt the man rocking beside him.

"You are not here to think, or talk; obedience is all that is asked of you."

"Yes, captain."

"Good." A hand grabbed his hair and turned his face, first one way, then another.

They talked about him as if he was not there. As if it did not matter whether he heard or not. Aragorn tried to wrench his head away, but he was held in place.

"This one needs a thorough wash: see to it."

Aragorn tensed. He remembered his last wash. But he could do little, though the blindfold and the gag was taken away. He caught a glimpse of torchlight, blinding after days of black, before hands gripped his shoulders and his neck and forced his head into water.

He held his breath. The water was fresh and cool; he would have called it soothing at any other time. Now he tried to stay still, tried to use this chance to slake his thirst, but they held him until his body fought to breathe, until it would no longer hold still; until his struggles grew weak. Then they pulled his head up again and he coughed and gasped for breath.

They rubbed soap into his hair, into his skin, into his eyes. It stung in the cracked corners of his mouth. The taste made him spit, and his eyes watered from the soap. They pushed him back into the water. Held him there.

_Give up,_ a voice whispered in his mind. _Thwart whatever purpose he has for you._ But his body would not. It fought, and fought, and fought again. Water ran down his face, down his neck. He spluttered and coughed when he finally was let up. One of the soldiers cursed and they let go of him. He curled up, gulping up water he could ill afford to lose.

When the heaving stopped, they pulled him up again and threw the rest of the water in his face.

And that was easier.

Rough cloth dried him, rubbed against scabs and sore skin. Then he had a brief respite. He could see that Imrahil was wet too, and they dried him off with scarce more care. But there was little he could do, and Aragorn turned his eyes away.

The dim torchlight no longer blinded him, and he could see more of the camp. Around them were the wagons, row upon row, but most of them empty. Too few for a long siege. If the defenders destroyed the granaries, withdrew with nothing left for the enemy to scourge… The people left behind would starve, but so would the enemy. He tried to look for fires, but he could not see that part of the City.

"My knife is sharp."

The words brought him back to his own plight.

"Whatever for?"

The soldier who had dried his face stood up, and Aragorn could see the soldier and his knife.

"To shave 'em," the first answered. "The Northmen go barefaced."

"No need."

Aragorn strained against the hands that held him and gritted his teeth when a thumb stroked his cheek.

"Smooth as a boy. Or a woman." The soldier leered. "Who's been shaving you?"

Aragorn glared at him, but did not answer. Just locked his eyes with the other's, and held him. He could hear the other guard say that they could not have been shaved in many days; the layer of dust and grime were days thick.

The soldier's eyes wavered under his, but his grin widened. "Are you no man, then?" he asked. He let go of Aragorn's hair, and grabbed him.

Aragorn made no sound; he could not trust what he would say. Distantly he heard Imrahil protest, one of the guards hit him in the side but he barely felt it. He could not say if he would have felt it had he not retained his mail, so intent was he on the man before him, and the hand holding him.

Imrahil fell silent.

But the man leaned closer, leering, and Aragorn held until his face was close enough.

The soldier fell back screaming. He clutched his nose, and it was Aragorn who smiled. Danger he promised in that smile, and danger laced his words:

"Let lose my bonds, and you will learn that I am more than man."

Anger had driven any fear he should have felt away, but he could see fear and anger warring in the other. And whether fear or anger won when the man — egged on by the soldiers standing round — rose and strode closer, Aragorn did not know.

The men holding him let go, and he toppled into the mud. Imrahil was calling again, but Aragorn had only contempt left for the stupidity of the man: his boots were soft, and Aragorn was still in his mail.

"Hold!"

It was Nagid, the captain from Harad. "Corporal," he said. "What has happened here?"

The soldier stepped away. Aragorn shifted his head so he could see. The corporal limped slightly and shrank under the captain's glare. He began to stammer excuses, until Captain Nagid stopped him. Two men hurried to drag Aragorn up and to his knees, and the captain came closer. Aragorn said nothing, and the captain did not ask him to speak. He studied his face: the fresh mud, and a sprinkle of blood on his forehead. He turned back to look at the corporal's bloodied nose.

"Clean him up again," Nagid ordered. "And you, Corporal, will present yourself for punishment in the morning." The corporal began to voice his defence, but the captain would not hear it. "Be grateful that your mistake will not thwart the Great Lord's plans," he said. "Or your punishment would have been death. But the steward will know his king, whether you have damaged his face or not. The Lord's Mouth has seen to it."

And from his jacket, he took out the Elessar, the Elfstone, and hung it around Aragorn's neck. Aragorn bit into the gag and strained against his guards; Faramir had not escaped then. Had the Mouth told the truth?

The rush of water chased the question from his mind, if only for a time.

After, they fitted the gag in place. The captain stood there, watching him. Aragorn met his eyes, but the captain did not hold his gaze. But he leaned down and felt the small swelling under the unbroken skin on Aragorn's forehead.

"You are prideful still," he said. "The Great Lord shows mercy on the deserving, and He understands pride; but those that in their pride will stand against Him, will fall to ruin. You will witness this, and know the truth of my words."

Aragorn shook his head. The captain said no more, and straightened.

“Bring them,” the he ordered.

Aragorn felt a tug around his ankles. The shackles fell away and he was hauled to his feet.

“Walk.”

But they had not allowed him to walk since his capture. His knees buckled under him, he stumbled. His guards swore and tugged him forward, towards the City. He slipped and stumbled and struggled to get his feet under him. They had not allowed him to walk on his own since his capture, but now… now his feet were no longer shackled tight and he could see. Now, for the first time since his capture, he had a choice – small though it was.

It became easier to walk, and he began to struggle against the guards instead. He strained against them, fought them step by step. They hauled him forward, but it was slow work, and hard. Grunts and curses rang down on him.

The corporal came closer. Aragorn saw him out of the corner of his eye: he carried a whip.

Before the corporal came close, Aragorn went limp. His guards were unprepared; they lost their grip and he let himself fall to the ground. He rolled. He struck with his feet and brought down one. He swiped another of his feet, and rolled again. Found his own feet and staggered backwards. Kept his balance.

The whip whistled and he ducked away. He retreated, step by step, backing away from the whip.

But they were many, and his hands were bound. Another whip cracked, and wrapped around his legs. He fell, and they grabbed him again, held him down.

“Bag.”

And his sight was taken. The bag was thick and smelled of earth and carrots. It was tied in place, and he was hauled to his feet.

“That,” the captain's voice said, “was foolish. Did you think you would be able to escape?”

Aragorn stood between his guards and did not move to answer. He knew there was little he could do, but he would not meekly let himself be led. He continued to struggle, and they pulled him forwards; he had to walk or lose his footing. He did not wish to be dragged helpless.

So he stumbled between the soldiers, slipped on the muddy ground and staggered to his feet again. And they forced him towards the City. He could feel the stone under his feet when they reached the Road, heard the echo when they passed the Gate. Up the levels of the City he struggled both to keep his feet, and against the guards.

He did not hear screams of wounded, nor the clash of steel, and he wondered if the City was already taken. Sweat stung in his eyes, and breathing became difficult, and still they forced him upwards.

Then they stopped, and the silence of many men surrounded him. Aragorn could sense the army around him, silent. Waiting. Ahead a man spoke and another answered. Aragorn was tugged forward, and the silence erupted into jeers and shouts.

He was jerked to a halt and forced to kneel. He would have fallen forwards, but the guards held on to his arms, held him upright on his knees. The bag was ripped away and he blinked. Torchlight blinded him, hands yanked his head back, and he heard the Mouth laugh.

Then he heard a shout of dismay from the walls.

Faramir had not left. Aragorn knew his voice. He squinted against the light, and saw him on the wall.

The Mouth looked at Aragorn, but Aragorn ignored him. Head wrenched up and held fast, he could not move it, but even so he kept his eyes on the walls. On Faramir. His body was tense, as if he was only waiting for some sign to break free from his bonds. Mute. Unbending.

Beside him Prince Imrahil hung slumped between his guards, pale and silent. If he still fought his captors, it could not be seen; he was too worn by injury and the road to offer any defiance. The Mouth turned from his hostages and back to the wall.

“The Great Lord is merciful, but impatient,” he called. “Surrender, and learn his lenience. Surrender, and Gondor will not suffer. Wait until we tear your walls down stone by stone,” he took hold of Aragorn and dragged him closer, “and Gondor will pay double for every wound suffered by our soldiers.”

Aragorn trembled under his hand and the Mouth smiled to feel it.

“Shall I order my men forward again, steward? Will you care so little for that which has been given in your care? For the life of your liege and your kinsman? For the life of your men and your people?”

“Name your demands.”

The smile widened, and the Mouth loosened his grip on Aragorn. The soldier tightened his instead, and the Mouth trailed his fingers down Aragorn's cheek, a mockery of a caress.

“Surrender, and your life, the life of your men, the life of your uncle; and the life of your king will be spared. The land east of Anduin will belong to the Great Lord, and Gondor will be taken in under the protection of Mordor; a tributary with leave to govern itself– within certain limits.”

Faramir did not answer at once. There was a movement in the darkness upon the walls; a man appeared beside the Steward, they conferred, and the man withdrew into the dark. A little later a standard was thrown down from the walls. White with no mark on it.

Aragorn closed his eyes and slumped in the grip of his guard. He barely heard Faramir's words, the rush of blood and his own breath too loud in his ears. Loud and harsh. The army cheered and shouted and he could feel the Mouth lean close, his breath hot on his face, and heard him say:

“Now thou seest, Elessar; thou hast served, and thou wilt serve, as the Great Lord wills.”

The Mouth straightened and Aragorn was left there, kneeling in the grip of the guards. Shouts and calls swirled around him, and he was hoisted to his feet. He was dragged, stumbling forwards, a short space.

“He is unharmed, as you can see.”

He met Faramir's eyes. The Steward was pale, ragged from the battle. _Do not surrender for my sake!_ But Faramir could not hear him; he was not allowed to speak.

"My lord," Faramir said, but Aragorn shook his head. The Mouth barked an order, and a blindfold was bound around his head, pressing on his eyes.

They dragged him away. Down through the City, how far he could not tell, nor could he tell whether Imrahil was brought with him, but at the end he was taken inside a building, down through narrow stairs, into some room. There they pushed him to the floor, unbound his arms and stripped him of his mail and boots. They clapped iron round his ankles, and left him, still gagged and blindfolded, on the cold floor.

…

His arms throbbed, and his fingers were stiff and clumsy; it took more time than it should to untie both the blindfold and the gag.

The cell was dark. No light; if there were any cracks in the door that could have let it in, Aragorn could not see them. Perhaps there were none. Perhaps there was no light outside the door. He crept forward, and found the wall.

He had cried behind the blindfold and the gag, that first night, if night it was, when they left him bound upon his knees. He had wept for those that had died, and those that lived. For their failure and for their loss. For the hobbits' unknown fate, and for the fate he knew too well awaited them all; the only outwards sign the wetting of the cloth around his eyes.

Now he clutched his throbbing arms to his chest and curled against the wall. Rocking with the pain, he cried again. In the darkness of the windowless cell he wept for Gondor and its people. He wept for the City that was lost. For the Steward and for the deadness in his voice. And he wept with the pain of the role he had been made to play. The role he would be made to play again.

The walls around him were silent and cold. He wept for a long time, until, at last, his tears ran dry, and weary, he fell into dreamless sleep.

He woke shivering with cold. His body was stiff and sore and he moved slowly and with care. He stretched; he bent his knees and placed the unclad soles of his feet on the floor. His legs weak from long disuse, he still pushed himself up and clambered to his feet.

The wall supported him, he held on until he was sure he would not fall. Then Aragorn pushed away. Chains rattled; the shackles were too tight for him to walk with ease, but walk he could.

The chains did not let him fully reach the door; the cell was long but narrow — even with his short range Aragorn could reach the corners of the wall he was chained to. And it was empty. No straw or even a bucket.

Aragorn sat down in one of the corners, even that little movement had left him tired. His body was heavy and weak. He did not know whether it was day or night, nor did he know how long he had slept, but he guessed that it had been several hours.

No food or water.

No food since the last halt before they reached Minas Tirith. No water for almost as long.

His lips were dry and cracked, and the gag had cut the corner of his mouth. The cut above his eye had closed, but it had not healed. Aragorn prodded carefully around the scab. The skin was hot and tender.

“It would indeed be a deep fall,” he mumbled. “To die of an infected whip-wound, though thirst seems more likely.”

He searched his body for other hurts, but his mail had protected him well. A welt wound around his calves – a whip-mark by the feel of it – but apart from those bruises, and raw-rubbed flesh on his wrists and neck, were all the wounds he had. What the Mouth had said was true enough: he was mostly unharmed.

And the Enemy did not wish him dead.

…

Aragorn did not know how long he sat in the darkness. He drowsed, and woke at the sound of feet.

A small sliver of light pierced the dark one moment before the door opened, and the light blinded him. Loud noise accompanied the light, and Aragorn raised his arms to shield his eyes and ears. Hands closed around his wrists, and he was too weak from thirst and hunger to resist. But he tried.

“Do not,” a voice said. It was the healer that had treated Imrahil during the march. “Or will you rather be chained to the wall while I treat you?”

Aragorn shook his head. His mouth was too dry to speak, but he peered against the light and let his arms fall when the healer let go of them.

His hands were cool and light. Aragorn closed his eyes while the healer checked him, and found nothing Aragorn did not already know. He prodded the cut above the eye.

“This should be laced,” he said. “There is corruption under the skin; the wound has closed too soon."

Aragorn lost the words that followed between the healer and the soldier, to tired to think clearly until the healer turned back to him. Touched his brow, moved on to pull open one eye. The crust of dried tears crumbled under his fingers and Aragorn drew back. The healer said nothing, and moved on to check the cuts around his mouth.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Aragorn relaxed a little when the hands disappeared.

“Open your eyes,” the healer instructed.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Aragorn opened his eyes. The light seemed less harsh and he looked at the healer. He was holding up one hand, one finger, in front of his face.

“Follow the movement.”

He did.

“Good,” the healer said. “Rest a moment; food and water are comming.”

Aragorn nodded, but he did not close his eyes again.

His cell was small, with stone walls, earthen floor, and no windows. From one corner to the next it was just a few feet long, but between the back wall and the door it was more than twice that length. The chain binding him in place was set in the earth floor, and the door, he saw, was not the thick, heavy door of a dungeon: they had put him in a larder.

Why not a cell? Minas Tirith had dungeons and jails; a larder could hardly be as secure. With some work, Aragorn thought he would be able to pull loose the chain, and he could see no lock on the door.

And then?

Sneak away and escape, and leave Gondor to her fate? The Mouth had already used him against Faramir once, and he did not wish to learn more of what the Enemy had in store for him.

Flee, or fight to death– or to his recapture?

The latter was more likely. More likely than any escape, whether through death or not. Aragorn closed his eyes.

Surrender?

He did not know if he could bear it. Had the Mouth placed him here, in this larder, to taunt him with the hope of escape, only to take it away? It was a well-chosen torment.

At that moment a guard came with food. The healer made him sip the water slowly. Asked him of pains, felt the heat of his brow, and asked if he felt hot. Aragorn felt cold, for the larder had been made to keep food and he had no blankets, or boots, nor had they let him keep the padded tunic he had borne under the mail.

“A low fever, then,” the healer muttered.

He left shortly after and the guards went with him. They left a bucket for his needs, and water and food by his side.

“Eat,” the healer said. “Or we will have to feed you.”

Aragorn gave no response, the threat was clear: eat, or be force-fed.

They took the light with them when they left.

…

Darkness. Darkness and shadow surrounded him. He did not know day from night, could not judge how fast the hours dripped by. Not since Moria had he known such darkness, the darkness of the deep earth where no stars shone. But even there, in the deep mines, there had been light, and space, and time. The staff of Gandalf leading them through the night; great halls and caves where their footsteps would resound; and in the morning high shafts had let in the sun.

Here was the dumb darkness of raw earth and small rooms. The man-made dark of bolted doors to trap the darkness and shut out light, and air. And life.

He tried to put such thoughts out of his mind: this cell was no tomb, but a larder; made to preserve food. Not corpses.

Sometimes he wondered if he would not prefer the tomb.

He tried to keep some count of the time by marking when the guards brought food, but he had nothing with which to scratch a mark. The walls were stone; too hard to mark without a knife, or iron nail. The marks he scratched into the floor too often distorted and destroyed by the guards, or his own, feet. He lost the count – and guessed that it would have been of little use. The guards' visits were random; at times too close to be even a day apart, at others far too long. Then he would sleep and wake and sleep again, and none would come. Not until his lips were parched and cracked and he did not feel the hunger-pains above the thirst.

No. That only happened once. Aragorn remembered that one time.

When the guards left with the water-bucket and the trays, he would dig around the bolt driven deeply into the earthen floor that held him chained in place. So he did this time too, always listening to hear if they returned.

They did not.

He did not know how long he dug. Hours? Days? He slept, and woke and dug again. The longer the guards stayed away, the better his chance to break free. _Do not come_ , he found himself wishing. _Do not come_.

They did not.

He had only his bare hands, and the floor was hard. He scraped his fingers, his nails broke and he bled, but he dug and dug. He tried to use the links of the chain to help ease his digging, but the bolt did not budge. The digging became harder and harder, more tiresome, but he kept digging when he did not rest. _Do not come; not yet._

They did not.

His mouth grew dry. His fingers weak. Every grain of sand, every speck of dirt he could feel against his fingertips; every hurt. But his body grew dull and numb, and he could not think. _When will they come?_

They did not, and that was all he knew.

The guards had found him more dead than alive. He could hear them, but he was too dry to speak. The light blinded him but he had little strength to move away. Loud voices, shouting, and he closed his eyes.

_Do not come! I almost found a way._

The healer came, speaking angry words in the Haradrim tongue. Aragorn could not follow it; it was too harsh, too fast. Too loud. The Haradrim soldiers blamed the corsair guards; they denied it, quarrelling above him as if he was not there. As if it did not matter what he heard.

And he remembered his body betraying him, desperate for the water even when his mind screamed at him to refuse it. Better to be dead, if the Enemy wanted him to live.

His body won that fight before it had began, gulping the water down as quickly as the healer would allow.

And then they left, and the darkness returned. He sat alone, shaken that he had not fought harder. Grey shapes danced around him, the echo of the blinding light. He waited for the images to fade, for the darkness to abate when his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark once more.

It never happened. No night-vision was strong enough to pierce the dark. Time and time again he waited, but the dark stayed the same inky black. It did not get better; the darkness was too complete.

He tugged at his chain. It did not budge. The bolt was driven deeper into the dirt, and he had lost whatever progress he had gained.

Why had he not fought harder?

_You always fought to live before. Not to die._

I did not know despair. However weary, there were always joy and light. Now darkness swallows all.

_You do not know that._

Yes, I do. The hobbits are lost, the Ring regained and Sauron won.

_And you would flee from him. Cowardly escape and leave. Let others fight in your stead?_

He wishes me to live; why should I not deny him? No other power is left me than to deny him this. If even that power is left. Should I surrender and not fight at all?

He sat in silence in the darkness. Moments passed; a whole Age of the world. From the depths of his heart the answer came, grim and small and bleak:

_If you are dead, you cannot fight again._

And so he lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: for torture, though not graphic. This warning – or for violence – will be relevant for much of the story, though the intensity and/or details of description will vary. The background theme of the possibility of abuse will be there in most chapters: I am telling about prisoners of war, in a time and place where the Geneva convention has not even been thought of.
> 
> I do, however, not intend to go beyond the T-rating. Should you at any point think I are getting too close to the line for M-rating, please tell me. I will most likely edit the more graphical material out, unless I feel it is needed, in which case I will change the rating. But I think it should be possible to tell the story effectively without too graphic descriptions.
> 
> Notes on names:
> 
> Erinç son of Igar - (Old Turcik) An Easterling. Morthoron gave me the advice and the link to find resources. The names are taken from the Orkhon inscriptions found in Mongolia.


	5. The Thoughts of Their Hearts

The Enemy's intentions these first months of his victory have never become fully clear. He, who seldom waited for his enemies to act, did not press his advantage against Gondor and the realms of Men, as had been expected. We now know that he moved to secure the last Rings of Power that until then had eluded him – the Elven Rings hidden in Lothlórien and Imladris, and their Bearers – before turning to Gondor with her captured King and broken armies. This plan was sound, and should have been anticipated by the Wise, but the main strike had been directed towards Gondor before the regaining of the Ring. The defeat at the Morannon, and the capture of the leaders of the West, changed the situation. Having already secured one of the Bearers, and with Gondor's might broken, the Enemy could afford to let the invasion of Gondor wait a few days.

His mistake, it would later be shown, was his dismissal of Rohan.

Gaining the White City, the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr did not pursue Éomer king, nor did he press onwards to the conquest of Rohan. Partly, it is guessed, this was due to his need to subdue all parts of Gondor, and to establish the Enemy's power in that land. The people of Dor-en-Ernil, of Belafas and Dol Amroth, more than any others, delayed this, refusing to bend before Mordor. Threats to the hostaged King did not sway them, for the lord Elessar was unknown to them then. But the Enemy had plans for him more important than to be killed to subdue the fishermen of Dol Amroth.

…

_They mean to break you._

He knew. It would have been more of a surprise if they had not. It was the method that confounded him: he had expected pain, not this boredom. This  _un-knowing_. This darkness where he almost doubted what he felt.

_Like water eating away the stone, one drop at a time. Or the wearing down of stone steps, one footfall after the other; with time deep groves are formed._

And in time he, too, might be worn by the smallest of pains.

_That is how they will break you._

He knew.

"I know," he told the darkness. "I know!"

But knowing did not help much. They had seen him fight. That servant of Sauron had seen him on his knees. Had studied him. Had gauged his reactions. Seen his fight against his bonds, his guards. Had, Aragorn had no doubt, had reports from the guards about that first night before the Black Gate. From the healers.

The Mouth of Sauron must have thought his mind would be easier to break than his body.

_And is it not?_

Aragorn laughed.

"No," he told the darkness. "My body will break before my will. Have I not forced that slave to look away every time our eyes have met? Did I not wrest the  _palantir_  from Sauron's power?"

The darkness did not answer, and he could feel the earth underneath his fingers again, the stone at his back. He got to his feet and walked back and forth as far as he could reach for the chains. It was still dark, but the darkness seemed lighter.

Until the small voice crept back:

_What if you cannot?_

…

In the early days of the occupation of Gondor, the Enemy made few demands that the Steward could not in good conscience fulfil. The first weeks were full of practical tasks, such as the recalling of the people that had fled the City, rebuilding the buildings needed to house both the returning people and the soldiers of the Enemy. The lord Faramir was also charged with the task of disarming the soldiers of Gondor, a painful task but not unusual, nor unreasonable. Harder was the command that all edged tools, even such as were needed for a butcher's or a wood-cutter's trade, were to be turned in; the Mouth would have no weapons in Gondor unless it was in the hands of his own men.

Though harsh, it was not pointlessly cruel. Meat was scarce, but it was the firewood that caused the Steward most worry.

In the unnatural darkness that prevailed these first months of the Enemy's triumph, more wood was needed than the time of year would demand, both for warmth and for cooking. Scraps of wood from the destroyed buildings could be gathered and used, but it was not enough, nor was all the wood small enough that it would be used in the hearths.

It was not until the Mouth was satisfied that all weapons were handed in, and the re-instated Council of Gondor had passed the law – all in proper order according to the customs of Gondor, except for the King's approval which had not mattered since the time of Mardil Voronwë – that no man or woman in Gondor could own or bear any edged or pointed weapon in public, nor own any knife larger than a kitchen-knife, unless approved and appointed by the King or his officials, at the approval of Mordor.

None dared to comment that the first woodcutters and butchers were approved quickly once meat and firewood became so scarce that even the leaders of the Emeny's army were running low.

Harsh as the ban against weapons were, some of Mordor's edicts proved harsher. Too harsh for the Steward to follow without complaint.

…

In the dark, Aragorn recited the stories and the songs of the past, his childhood learning. The long tales from when the world was young. Of the light of the Trees. Of clear voices singing in the star-light. Of breaking waves and the call of the gulls, and of the coming of Elves and Men. And the stories turned dark, and there was valour and despair and Aragorn sang through his tears and let the old words lament the new fear.

_Lo! Húrin Thalion in the hosts of battle_   
_was whelmed in war, when the white banners_   
_of the ruined king were rent with spears,_   
_in blood beaten; when the blazing helm_   
_of Finweg fell in flame of swords…_

_No_. It was not a song to lift the heart. He searched for others, for the songs of his manhood: those he had learned in other lands — lands of green grass and sun.

_Horselords, listen …_

_Yes_. Thundering hooves, the wind of speed blowing in his face, and horns. Horns, horns; great horns of wild joy and the freedom of running horses.

_Far south in the city of stone_   
_The worthy lord sat in war-troubled thought._   
_Counsel the Steward of the Stonemen sought;_   
_Wisdom to win victory in war._   
_No kin nor kindred close they had_   
_And enemies all around drew near._   
_Then Mundburg's master his mind turned_   
_North to Horselords for help in need…_

But in the darkness his mind would falter, and turn back to the lament and fear; the words of that lay echoing in his mind. Over and over in the lonely days and nights.

_That field yet now the folk name it_   
_Nirnaith Ornoth, Unnumbered Tears:_   
_the seven chieftains of the sons of Men_   
_fled there and fought not, the folk of the Elves_   
_betrayed with treason. Their troth alone_   
_unmoved remembered in the mouths of Hell_   
_Thalion Erithámrod and his thanes renowned._   
_Torn and trampled the triple standard_   
_of the House of Hithlum was heaped with slain._   
_In host upon host from the hills swarming_   
_with hideous arms the hungry Orcs_   
_enmeshed his might, and marred with wounds_   
_pulled down the proud Prince of Mithrim._   
_At Bauglir's bidding they bound him living;_   
_to the halls of Hell neath the hills builded,_   
_to the Mountains of Iron, mournful, gloomy,_   
_they led the lord of the Lands of Mist,_   
_Húrin Thalion, to the throne of hate_   
_in halls upheld with huge pillars_   
_of black basalt._

One song alone could his heart not bear to remember.

The Lay of Leithian.

…

The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr wrote many letters and reports to his master during the conquest of Gondor, but the letters were written on the thin sheets made from reeds that some of the people of Harad use – a most fragile paper — and are so corrupted that they are now difficult to read, the ink faded or the paper destroyed by time. But the parts that still can be read, I have copied that they might be preserved. Here is given the pieces that speak of the king Elessar, and of the Steward, lord Faramir.

" _Elessar is a proud and arrogant man,"_ states the first readable sentence.  _"He does not compare to his forbearers, much less to the leaders of Your servants, my Lord, but he is stubborn, and he will not be swayed by reason or pain, for he bears pain well. While it is true that all men will break under torment when the pain becomes too much, I deem that he will be left useless to You, should we rely on pain alone. This much I have learned from my dealings with him."_

The following words cannot be read, but a little further down, they become clear again.

"…  _first dealing with him, it became clear that Elessar thinks highly of himself and of his own importance. His claim of kingship and arrogant belief that his forces could stand against Your might, show this clearly, but also in my meeting with him I sensed this arrogance. At the time the wizard was of greater concern, but I marked that he seemed to think the wizard his servant, leaving it to him to do the talking._

_His misplaced pride became even clearer to me the second time Elessar came before me. He refused to repent his misdeeds and make amends by serving You. I could see that he expected to be punished for this, but in accordance with Your will I dismissed him._

_Since his defeat, Elessar have been granted little freedom. This I have done to impress upon him that he is at Your mercy and have lost all power except what You chose to grant him. To reinforce this lesson, I have ordered that he is to always be bound in some way, even when he is locked in. This continued discomfort wears on him, more so, I suspect, than he lets show._

_But his will are not to be broken by this alone._

_Since he is proud, we humiliate him. We take from him his movement, his sight, his speech. We leave him helpless and alone. Only the guards, and if needed a healer, see him. He is given no tidings, and I never let him know how closely I have him watched. All to impress on him of how little consequence he is._

_One exception I will allow, to observe the bond between the Steward and Elessar. I admit that I do not fully understand why the Steward would so quickly come to care for one that would have taken away his rule, but I have seen that it is so. The Steward…"_

The rest of the letter is lost.

…

One night, if night it was, they came for him. Dragged him out — though he would have walked willingly. Out of the room, out into the air. Out into the streets.

The streets were silent beyond his guards. Night-silent. He could not see where he was taken, but the road rose and rose. Up. Up the levels of the City. They passed through one tunnel; Aragorn could hear the echoes of their feet. They passed two, then more, until he was taken inside once more. Down stairs and through doors that rang of metal. And then they reached their end.

He reached whatever end they meant for him. He was yanked to a halt, pushed down – kicked down – until he was kneeling. And they left. They left him kneeling, chained to the floor, alone in the silence. He could hear nothing above his own breaths, and his own blood pounding in his head. No footsteps. No clang of metal doors. Nothing.

_They have not left._

The door had not closed; there were still guards with him. Aragorn tensed, waiting for them to begin whatever they had taken him there to do.

But nothing happened, and nothing continued to happen.

The body cannot stay alert forever. His mind told him that he was not alone; that he had to stay awake. But his body could not. He would nod, and catch himself before he fell, and soon he would nod again. He almost missed the footsteps when they came.

There was movement around him; he could feel it. The wait was over, even so he was startled by the first touch: the light stroke of fingertips in his hair.

"Elessar," said the Mouth, and Aragorn tried to move away from his touch but the chains were too short. Aragorn could feel his breath on his face. "Hast thou learned to fear, since thou shrinkest from me?"

Aragorn shook his head.

"No?" said the Mouth, and there was dark amusement in his voice. "If it were true, I would say nothing to it, for I have been most lenient to thee; thou hast not been put to torment, or given over to the Orcs. Thy wounds have been tended, and food and drink given to thee. I have not given thee reason to fear me. But thy own actions belie thy words: thou fearst me."

Aragorn did not move. The Mouth continued to stroke his fingers through his hair, moved them down to his face. Aragorn fought to stay still, to show him nothing. The Mouth was silent for a while, then he spoke again.

"Elessar," he said, and Aragorn wished he would not use that name. "While thou hast idled thy days away, all of Gondor has fallen to my hand. Thy Steward has been broken to my will, and through me the will of our Lord. I have time to turn to lesser concerns, until the word comes and I go to claim all lands in the Great Lord's name."

_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out._

He listened to his own breaths, the beating of his own heart; used them to block out the words that fell on him, to let the voice wash over him and trickle away. Not let the poison enter his mind.

_They mean to break you._

Aragorn closed his eyes behind the blindfold, closed his ears against the Mouth, and waited for the torment to begin.

It was not until later, when they left him chained to the floor and he heard the door ring shut and the footsteps dwindle, that he understood that the torment had already begun.

…

Most of the laws passed in these early days were no different than any conqueror would demand, for the Mouth's first aim was to strengthen his hold on Gondor. But a few were not.

Once such was the law for widows and unwed women.

_"All women above the age of seventeen that belong to a household that can not account for all their men-folk – whether by the men presenting themselves or by showing the body before burial – are to serve in the barracks of the soldiers no less than two days and nights each week, until such time that order has returned to the land of Gondor and its people have come fully under the rule and protection of Mordor and its ruler – their liege-lord."_

"Uncle?"

Imrahil was sitting on a narrow bed, the only furniture in the room. Though not in any of the prisons — of which there seemed to be more of every day — the room was still a cell. Locked door. Windows small and barred. Guards outside the door. But the bed was clean, with pillows of eiderdown and warm blankets, and the mattress stuffed with clean straw. The Prince was still recovering from his wounds.

"Uncle."

Faramir stood beside the bed. In his hand, he held the scroll which he had given prince Imrahil to read.

"Uncle, speak to me."

"Tell me that it is not true." Imrahil turned to face Faramir and his face was of one who thought he had seen the worst happen, and been wrong.

"Tell me that my eyes did not read those words," he said. "Tell me that the scroll in your hand never was. Tell me that they do not ask us to whore our women."

Faramir closed his eyes.

Imrahil turned away. "What do you want from me?" he asked. His lips were pressed so close that his words were hard to understand. "My blessing?"

"No, uncle," Faramir said. "Your counsel. The Enemy has not let his soldiers pillage our homes and carry off the women, not after our surrender."

"Your surrender," Imrahil said. "Our defeat."

"Uncle…" Faramir stopped himself.

"Since the surrender," he began anew, "the Enemy has not allowed any plunder and our women have not been touched. Yet. The Mouth claims that the women are only called to serve at the tables, or cook; or clean for the soldiers, nothing more."

"And you believe him?"

"No."

The silence stretched between them, into the time they did not have. Outside the darkness continued unchanged, turning night to day and day to night. Grass would not grow this spring, nor crops, and the enemy would take what food there was left for themselves. Come harvest there would be nothing to celebrate, only famine and hunger, unless the clouds would soon part.

It was Faramir who broke the silence.

"Uncle, I need some way to hinder this law, and yet make sure worse do not come from it. But I do not know how."

Imrahil looked at him. "You do not know how?" He smiled. It was strained and vain, but it was the first smile Faramir had seen Imrahil make. "Faramir, if you do not know how to avoid the wishes of you ruler… you managed well enough under you father."

"This is the Enemy," Faramir answered. "My father… there were no risks then. Not like now."

"There was risk then as well."

"Only to myself."

And therein lay the rub.

Imrahil choose to take a different route. "Why does the Mouth want you to get this law passed?" he asked. "He could let the soldiers take what spoils they want, and we could not stop them. You could not stop them. No, there is some deeper purpose to the Mouth's demands."

"Yes," Faramir answered. "And I do not know what it is. If I knew, I might know better what to do."

"You are the only visitor allowed, except the healer," Imrahil said. "If you do not know, I cannot be of much help. But I do not see much choice for you; if you let this law pass, they will pressure you further and further until you break. Until you cannot any longer resist, whatever they may ask, and you become a puppet, no better than any servant of the Enemy.

"If you refuse…"

Faramir sat down beside Imrahil. He did not look at his uncle but stared at the door. It was a heavy, wooden door, closed shut even against sound. Or so it would seem. Still Faramir hesitated. The Mouth had many ears.

"I cannot let this law pass," he said at length. "And I cannot refuse too openly."

"And my counsel," Imrahil said, "you do not need, son of my sister."

Faramir shook his head. "I do not. But I wished it all the same. I know, now, that such wishes are vain."

"When all choices are evil, good counsel cannot be had."

"Or given."

They could not bear to speak of the fears closer to them. Of the fate of loved ones, of the living and dead. Of their own fates which lay in darkness. Of what new horrors the Enemy might demand. And so they did not speak until their time had almost run out; until they could hear the changing of the guard outside, and both knew that soon one must leave, and the other stay. Then, at last, Imrahil spoke.

"Do you have news of the King?"

The door opened, and the guards called for the Steward to leave. Faramir rose. His answer spoken in a low voice, so as not to reach the guards at the door.

"None that I can trust."

…

He must have slept, because he woke up.

Aragorn lay on the floor, stiff and sore. He could not move, nor stretch, nor rise, and the stone was cold underneath him. Still chained down. Blind. Mute. And he could not move. And he was alone.

Fear took him then, and he could not push it back.

He began to fight against the bonds. Fought to move, to call, to be free. And nothing helped.

 _They mean to break you._ But he did not listen to the voice. Alone. In darkness. Chains. Cold. Darkness. Alone.

He screamed, but only muffled sound were heard. Chains rattled, and did not budge. Did not break. Alone. Darkness. Cold. He fell into the red dark where he knew nothing but the struggle. He did not know how long he was lost; when he found himself again it was still cold, still dark, and he could not move.

…

It was even later that the Mouth returned. Aragorn was too tired to move, too tired to jerk his head away from the touch of his fingers.

"So, Elessar, thou hast learned to surrender to my will and the will of the Great Lord."

 _That_  made him flinch.

"The Great Lord has shown thee mercy, Elessar, hath thou but understanding to see it." He paused, and he must have given some sign for Aragorn was hoisted back on his knees. "Thou wilt learn, and be grateful for that mercy," the Mouth continued, and the gag was undone and fell from Aragorn's mouth. "Though it matters little; the Great Lord's purposes cannot be thwarted. Grateful or not thou wilt serve him."

Aragorn tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. He shook his head in denial.

Fingers snapped. "Water," the Mouth ordered.

Movement around him. The sound of pouring water. A cup touching his lips, a hand tipping his head. Cold, clear water. Filling his mouth. Soothing.

Aragorn drank.

"Thou seest the mercy given to thee?" the Mouth said. "Unmerited, without condition."

"Not… not entirely." Aragorn swallowed. His tongue was thick and swollen and his words slurred; the water was not enough. Just enough that he could speak. "Not without conditions: you want something of me, you and Sauron, your master. For I am still alive, and you are here yourself."

A finger brushed across his face and Aragorn shrank from it. The Mouth laughed.

"The Great Lord wants many things," he said. "He needs nothing. Thou art alive because it pleases him that thou should be, and he pities thee; the Elves and the Wizards have used thee, and thou hath been their unwitting pawn."

"No."

"In truth it is so. The Great Lord sees and knows all things. He knows, far better than thee, the minds and plots of those that have stood against him before thou wert born. And he knows even thy thoughts."

At that Aragorn laughed. "You forget, Mouth of Sauron, or perhaps your master has not told you: I fought Sauron in the seeing-stone. He did not know until then that I lived, did not know I walked upon this earth until I chose to show myself to him. No, Sauron does not know my thoughts, nor my mind or heart."

Silence followed his words. The soft swish of cloth against his face told him that the Mouth had risen. Then nothing again. Aragorn waited. He would not offer words unasked; safer, if there should be any secrets left to keep. And speaking would not help him, not now.

"Thou art silent," the Mouth said at length. "Loudly thou speakest when thou thinkest none will hear, but in company thou hast no words. And thou wouldst be king? Tongue-tied even in such small company. Is thy fear that great?"

 _He means to break you._  But even so…

"Thou hast not given me voice," Aragorn answered.

His head was wrenched back and he could feel the breath of the Mouth on his cheek. It did not surprise him.

"Do not presume us equals, Elessar," the Mouth hissed.

"I did not."

Aragorn had guessed what would follow that answer as well.

…

_Was it worth it?_

The question remained with him, alone in the dark afterwards. "Dost thou think it worth it, Elessar?" the Mouth had asked before he left. Aragorn had not answered. Could not answer. Not then.

_Was it worth it?_

Perhaps. Even though little had changed. Even though he hurt. Even though it still was dark, he still was alone, and he could not move. He still had some power, if only the power to anger his jailor.

Aragorn held on to that thought to the long hours that followed. Alone. In the dark. Where he could not move. He could not see. He could not scream. And he  _could not move_.

When finally, finally, he heard footsteps and the opening of the door, Aragorn had no strength left to move even his head. Hands grappled him, and he heard the guards muttering about the stench. As if they have given him any choice.

_They mean to break you._

But the knowing did not lessen the sting.

"Thou art a fool, Elessar."

 _Perhaps_ , Aragorn conceded.  _But not from lack of knowledge_.

"A fool to believe the gray-beard and the Elves."

_So thou hast said to me before._

"Did they tell thee thou wouldst be the one to vanquish the Great Lord?"

 _Just one of many. Not_ the  _one; that was Frodo_. But that thought hurt.

"They sent thee, and hid in their forests and valleys …"

_Gandalf did not._

"… but they hid in vain. Thy little army did not slow the plans of the Great Lord: the Elves, thy masters, have fallen."

That startled him.  _No_. He shook his head.  _It is a lie, the time too short_. But the Mouth laughed, and Aragorn did not know how much time had passed. He remembered the army passing on the day after the battle and he shook his head again. Hoping.

"The Noldor witch fell quickly, her golden wood burned and her people dead or captured. She should already be with the Great Lord."

 _That should not have been said outside Lórien, not even to me._  But that was in another time. Now… now Sauron would know the bearers of the Three.

"And the half-breed, and all his house; they are even now being taken to Mordor. All that survived."

He fought not to move. Not to react.  _He means to break you. Breathe. He lies._

But the Mouth bent close; close enough to feel the tension in his body. Close enough that he could feel the heat of his breath on his neck. In his ear.

"None escaped."

He held still. Still he held.

"They say his daughter is most beautiful. I shall soon know the truth of it."

He fought. Then Aragorn fought with newfound strength. The guards holding him swore, but what he heard was the Mouth of Sauron laughing.

"Unless her beauty already has been marred by the orcs…"

Aragorn did not hear the rest of the Mouth's words. Sickness welled up within him, and he no longer fought the guards or his bonds. The hands let go of him and he fell, convulsing on the floor. He gagged. He could not breathe.

"Remove the gag."

"My lord, it…"

"You will die, slowly, if he does."

The guard obeyed. Aragorn coughed and spat, and gagged on the smell and the taste. And then he retched again. And again. Again, until his heaves were dry and his stomach cramped, and still he could not stop. They left him, and he did not hear their parting words; too sick to sense anything beyond his own body and the one name echoing in his mind:

_Arwen!_

…

When next they came for him, the Mouth kept his distance and the guards' muttered complaints were louder.

"What would they think of thee now, Elessar?"

The voice moved around him, and Aragorn moved his head to follow.

"What would the elves think of thee? Thy men? Thy people? What would they think of thee if they could see thee wallowing in thy own filth and sickness?"

The voice was different, as if the Mouth spoke through water. Or a cloth. Aragorn coughed, and said nothing.

"They would wash their hands of thee." The Mouth laughed. "And washing they would need; thou art filthy."

At that Aragorn grew calm and still. He lifted his head, and though his sight was taken he looked at the Mouth and showed no fear. His voice was rough, he formed his words slowly and with care, but his speech was clear.

"The filth is yours. Thine and thine servants; thy hospitality is sorely lacking."

There was a short pause, and then one of the guards cuffed his head.

"Mend thy manners."

"When thou mendest thine."

"Thou wouldst make demands, Elessar?" But he heard laugher in the Mouth's voice.

"Leave me," Aragorn answered. "I grow weary of thy words. If thou fearst me so that thou must deny me movement even behind locked doors; deny me sight even when there is no light; deny me speech when there is none to hear, then go back to thy master, Slave of Sauron. Thou wilt fear me even in my grave."

"Thou thinkest thou canst anger me with thy words, Elessar. What doest thou hope to gain? Not thy words and deeds it is that govern thy fate, but thy Steward's obedience."

"Lord Faramir has not seen me." Aragorn had to stop and swallow before he could continue his speech. "Thy…" he coughed and straitened himself again. "Thy words betray thee; Faramir must trust in what lies thou tellest him."

"Not entirely." Aragorn could hear the sneer in the Mouth's voice. "Show our guest to his bath."

Hands hauled him to his feet and he was dragged away, down corridors and up stairs. When they stopped, he was first given the same bath had he had been given before. The guards' laughter rang in his ears whenever he was pulled up, mocking his desperate gasps for air. But it did not last long. After just a few dips, he was given some respite. He lay on the floor, coughing, while around him the guards moved. Words were shouted, but he could not make out their meaning.

Before he could recover completely the hands were back, but this time they merely released his bonds. The light blinded him and his limbs were stiff and swollen, but he tried to move, wary of what they next intended.

"Strip."

He hesitated, or was he merely too stiff? It did not matter; the guards stripped off his shirt, ripping it in their impatience. He managed to fight them off before they could take more.

"I am able to remove my own clothes," he said. His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the light and he could see a tub of water standing there. A bath?  _Unless they mean to deceive you._  But they could easily have cut the clothes from his body while he was bound, or overpower him again and tear them from him. With all the dignity he could muster, he took off the remaining clothes and stood naked before them.

"Get in, and wash yourself well – if your filth can be washed from you."

Aragorn did not answer the guard, but he looked at him. A man of Harad, like the rest; tall among his own men, but Aragorn towered above him. When he caught his eye, the guard could not hold his gaze.

"Go back to your master and tell him that I require no attendance for my bath."

"Just get in, or you will be attended whether you wish or not," the man grated through clenched teeth.

"Your men are too poorly trained for such service."

Aragorn lingered a moment longer. He could see the man clench his hands into fists, but neither he nor the other men lifted their hands against him. Aragorn waited until the man was about to move before he walked over to the tub and sat himself down.

The water was warm and clean with scented oils, and soap with which to wash. His cuts stung a little, but the warmth soothed stiff limbs and bruises. Aragorn ignored the guards and let the water warm him, and loosen the dust and dirt and sweat and filth that layered his skin, before he began to wash it off.

…

The king was kept apart throughout his stay in Minas Tirith. Except for his guards– all enemy soldiers from Harad or Umbar– few people were allowed to see him. Among those few was a healer of the Haradrim whose name has been lost. His report, however, survived.

" _Elessar of the North did not suffer any grievous hurt during his stay in the Stone-city, and he was, with a few exceptions, treated well. Better, at least, than our leaders would have received in the Northmen's care._

_I noticed, in the time I was given responsibility for his well-being, only a few incidents of neglect from the guards, and only one of those was clearly the result of ill-will._

_In the confusion of the siege and battle when the Stone-city fell, the prisoner was left without food or water for at least one day and two nights. This negligence was understandable, if unfortunate, and it was remedied before the prisoner's life was in danger. But the other incidence happened under no such mitigating circumstances, and posed a far greater threat to the prisoner's life._

_Following the order of the Mouth of our Great Lord, food and water was never given to the prisoner at regular hours. This has little influence on a man's body as long as he is given enough to sustain his life. But about one week after the Stone-city was taken, the guards waited too long. Perhaps they were angry, for several of the soldiers that had been wounded died from their wounds at that time, or perhaps they simply did not think, but they left the prisoner without water for almost three days._

_They realised their mistake when the prisoner did not move or speak when they at last saw to him, and I was sent for._

_I have no doubt that he would have been dead within the day from lack of water, and it took five days before he fully recovered. The guards claimed that they had offered him both water and food, but that he had denied them. That must clearly be a lie, for the prisoner's fingers bore marks that he in desperation had scratched at the door and the floor, and he would surely have taken water before being so reduced, had he the chance. In my dealings with the prisoner he always behaved with as much dignity a prisoner could keep, and I do not believe he would go digging in the ground unless driven by the desperate thirst which makes the strongest man weak and drives the proudest to begging. And even so, Elessar of the North would not, I deem, be reduced to begging had he chosen this manner of death. Also he drank readily when I gave him water._

_The Great Lord's Mouth was informed of the incident, and it was never repeated._

_Twice I was called upon to watch over the prisoner's torment. When I was called the first time, I expected him to be under questioning; my orders were to clear him for a whipping, should he be fit, and the guards would not dare neglect their duties again. Furthermore, I would have been called sooner had the prisoner fallen ill. Unless weakened by questioning, the prisoner would have been strong enough that no healer would be needed to clear him._

_I found, unexpectedly, that the prisoner was in his bath when I arrived. Yet another testimony of his mild treatment._

_It eased my duty, for I was able to study him more closely. He had already washed himself most thoroughly when I arrived, and at my order fresh towels were brought. I did not wish that he should dirty himself using his clothes to dry off. Moreover, the Mouth of our Lord had charged me to find any hidden hurt that might have been overlooked._

_The prisoner had new bruises on his chest and arms, and on his back, but all other marks were old and fading. The cut on his face and on his neck were the exception; they were slow to heal, I noted, and the one on his brow most so. His wrists, too, bore marks both old and new, as if the prisoner had newly fought his bonds. His grip was a little weak; still it was the cut on his brow that worried me most. I had to lance it until it bleed clean once more: the second time, though enough time had passed that it should have been healed._

_I had fresh water fetched to clean the cuts; though the prisoner was cleaner than I had yet seen him, the used water stank and was most unclean. I did not wish to risk further corruption to the wounds._

_The prisoner did not fight the treatment._

_A naked man can do little against armed guards, still it seemed to me that it was they that feared him, not he them. None among them would meet his eyes while I was there. Towards me he acted with a calm dignity such as I have only seen in our most noble soldiers. And never in one un-clothed among his jailors._

_The Northmen must in truth be without shame, or he would not have ignored his own nakedness thus._

_Indeed, the people of the Stone-city are shameless, with no sense of propriety. Their young, unwed women walk with hair uncovered and unbound, and the people themselves walk with bare faces. Neither beards nor cloth cover them so that the thoughts of their hearts can be readily seen. And all but a few know not how to read the subtle language of the eyes._

_The prisoner, however, needed no coverings to hide the thoughts of his heart, and even his eyes could not be read by me. I wondered at the time whether this, rather than a lack of shame, enabled him to appear clothed even in his nakedness._

_But though I could not read the prisoner's heart, his body spoke of its needs and I need no translation to understand that language. And his body needed rest, and food, and clothes to stave off cold, and salves and bandages to keep his wounds clean so that they could heal; but most of all it needed water._

_It was because of the prisoner's lack of water, and because I knew from the smell of the bath-water and his soiled clothes that he had been ill, that I advised that the prisoner should be given two days' rest before the whipping, and that he be given clean and warm clothes, food, and drink in that time. I also advised that he would not be subjected to further questioning. That was when I learned that the prisoner had not been questioned._

_His bruises could not have been the result of unsanctioned neglect, for none of the guards were punished. The Mouth did, however, heed my advice and bade me oversee the prisoner's treatment._

_'I will have him strong in body,' he told me. And I did my best to fulfil his command._

_The whipping, when it took place, was led by the Mouth of our Lord himself. It was a simple punishment, which spoke of the importance of the prisoner and the care the Mouth takes in all his duties._

_The defeated Steward was present as well, for the punishment was his rather than the prisoner's. It was clear that the Steward cared for him, though he spoke little at first. But the Northmen, as I have said, go barefaced and do not cover the thoughts of their hearts; the Steward wept with no shame._

_It was a severe whipping, for despite his tears the Steward did not speak the words the Mouth of our Lord wished to hear. At one point I was concerned for the prisoner's breathing, for he was gagged and had swooned, and water did not rouse him: it was the lack of air, more than pain, which dragged him down._

_When the Mouth would not have the gag removed, but threatened to continue the punishment despite the danger to the prisoner, the Steward broke, as the servant of our Lord had known. The prisoner was then allowed to recover. I was able to rouse him to coherence, and though he had not the strength to stand, he was well enough to speak, and even mock my attempts to measure his lucidity._

_The remainder of the punishment was delivered without further halts. The prisoner was unresponsive after its completion."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on quotations:
> 
> The first and last excerpt of poetry is quoted from The Lays of Beleriand (HoME 3), the second version of The Children of Húrin.
> 
> The middle excerpt is from my own poem The Ride of Eorl, posted here under "Songs of the Mark". I have made slight alterations to the version given above.
> 
> "That should not have been said outside Lórien, not even to me". FotR, The Great River
> 
> A/N: My thanks to the people on The Garden of Ithilien and my beta JAUL for help getting the chapter into shape.
> 
> With this chapter I am now up to date with all that has been posted of this story on other sites as well, and will follow the same update schedule as I have there: one chapter a month. The next chapter is to be posted soon, though, as this was October's chapter.


	6. False Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for chapters: see endnote.

_"The people of Gondor are stiff-necked."_

The Steward had stalled the law of widows and unmarried women, claiming that too many lay dead on the field to give an accurate account of all the dead; that too many had not yet returned to the City to say for certain whether the men had fled or not; that the women were needed to rebuild. And the Mouth, testing the Steward's resolve, had let his excuses pass for a time, slowly adding pressure to find the Steward's breaking point, until he had the King whipped. By then, Faramir had managed to modify the law, so that the women would work only by day. He hoped that would serve as some protection, as it was later proved to do.

But the Mouth did not let him savour this victory for long.

In truth, it is uncertain whether it could be called a victory, for the Steward could no longer deny the Enemy, and he knew it even before the King was whipped. Still, the punishment of the King both served the purpose of the Enemy, and thwarted it.

Faramir relented, but the Mouth decided to press him, now that he had yielded once, and further humiliate both Steward and King with new demands. Acting quickly, he sought to embitter the King against the Steward, and test the bond the Steward had shown towards the King, if it could be of use. Therefore, Faramir was called back to the prison the next day.

No other prisoners were held with the lord Elessar. His cell was small and dark with no windows. Three walls of stone, and the fourth was the bars separating the cell from the corridor.

The king did not know this, nor did he know what image he presented where he lay curled against the wall. A bloodied back where torn flesh bled slowly, and the crusted blood had not been washed away. Though open to the corridor, the cell stank of stale air, of illness, and of filth.

…

_"The people of Gondor are stiff-necked."_

Aragorn lay still. He could feel eyes watching him, pricking at the back of his neck, but he could do nothing to hide. His hands and legs were chained so closely to the wall that he could not turn, and pain flared whenever he tried to move.

It gave him something to fight against.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Soft movements. Footsteps felt through the ground. A sharp drawing of breath, then nothing. He inched his head to better hear.

"Second lesson."

It was the Mouth of Sauron; Aragorn knew his voice.

"Yesterday you were taught the cost of disobedience. Now you must learn the cost of sloth."

And Aragorn knew then that the Mouth spoke not to him, but to Faramir.

"Take light inside so that my pupil can see better."

And he could feel the steps of the guard, could  _sense_  him stand over him. Oh! to be able to shrink into the dirty straw! But he held, waiting.

"You have not tended his wounds."

Faramir's voice. It was rough.

"I have learned, the law is passed: this serves no…"

"You have not learned to keep your tongue, I see," the Mouth said. Aragorn tensed, but the Mouth merely spoke on. "You, Steward, are but a servant. You must learn to obey, not question, and to obey quickly. I have a new task for you, and when that task is done, I will send a healer to see to your would-be king."

Aragorn nearly spoke then.  _What law? What task?_  The words hovered on his tongue, waiting to spill over his lips. He hesitated. He did not trust his voice. Nor would he trust the answer the Mouth might give. If answer he would.

"And what does the lord order?"

Faramir's voice echoed his own mistrust.

"It is a simple task of cleaning. The Citadel court have fallen in disarray; you will have it set to its proper state before midsummer."

"At once." Faramir answered too quick, skirting the edge of interruption. Aragorn could hear him standing posted to leave before the Mouth could reveal his true test.

"You will take what men you need," the Mouth continued. "And make sure to clean away all the dead plants that clutter around the fountain."

"Nothing grows in Court of the Fountain."

There was a silence.

_No._  Aragorn saw the Mouth's meaning an instance before Faramir's "No!" echoed his thought.

"Not the Tree." Faramir's voice was but a whisper, a child pleading that his fear be not true.

The Mouth did not speak, but Aragorn arched away from the sudden blow. The chains rattled and he bit of a cry. There were voices and movement from the door, but the words were swallowed and drowned. He curled back in on himself and hid his head as best he could; pressed against the wall, his breathing quick, he made himself small and steeled himself against the next kick.

It did not fall.

In the silence, he heard movement. At least two or three more people entered his cell. The guard withdrew; another took his place and knelt behind Aragorn.

Then nothing.

Aragorn's breath came in shallow, short bursts. He could sense the kneeling man, could sense there were others around, but they were silent. He could hear his own breath, could hear the torches burn, could feel the warmth from the flames on his skin, but nothing else happened. He turned his head slightly, trying to hear the guards better, trying to judge how many they were and what they would do.

A hand on his shoulder. Light, barely there. A familiar touch, but it brought no comfort. He flinched and turned his face back to the wall.

The Mouth slid his hand down around his throat and under his chin. He tried to twist away from the grip, but the Mouth held him and slowly turned his face back towards the room.

"Look at him," the Mouth said. "So proud once. Now he is filthy and weak and flinches from my touch. Tell me, little king," he whispered into Aragorn's ear, "how dost thou like thy kingdom?"

Aragorn did not answer. The Mouth slipped his other hand into Aragorn's hair, then clenched and held his head still while the first hand slithered back across his shoulder and down his spine. Aragorn hissed and strained away. Clenched his teeth and fists.

The Mouth laughed. "Poor little Elessar." He pressed down on a welt. "What is this? Infected already? All because thy Steward is slow. Slothful and unwilling. Poor, uncrowned king." He pulled Aragorn closer. A hand stole back around his throat. Fingers dug into the sinews underneath the ears, too hard to be a caress. Too soft to strangle. Aragorn swallowed against the pressure. He could feel the breath upon his face when the Mouth spoke again.

"Perhaps the Steward should be replaced? The Great Lord has many servants, willing and quick. Or would mayhap a king do better? Mordor does not ask much of its tributaries." His grip softened to soothing strokes; comforting, if it had been other hands, other places.

But Aragorn laughed at the words, and the laugh was bitter. His voice was hoarse and rough when he spoke. "Didst thou think that I would break that quick? That I would believe thy lies? Sauron will never make me king. I am a hostage, and that is all the use he will get from me."

"Our lord needs no other." Ever so slowly, the Mouth once more tightened his grip. "Do not think he needs thy good will, brigand; the Great Lord's will is always done. Now wert thou a good hostage. Cry. Beg. Scream. Let thy Steward know what his useless resistance has brought."

Aragorn was silent.

The Mouth did not speak again. He kept his grip, and Aragorn could feel him turn, could hear the clang of a bucket, and the slosh of water. Could hear the startled reaction of Faramir.

Aragorn kept still. He knew that he could not avoid whatever they would do next, and in some way, he was almost relived. There would be pain. He did not doubt that there would be more pain, but pain was merely pain. It was simple. Against it, he could fight, and he could endure. The weeks– was it already weeks? – alone in the cell, waiting, never knowing when they would come, never knowing what would happen, what they'd do, never knowing what was happening outside, were somehow worse.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Taking his time, the Mouth trailed his fingers over Aragorn's back. That touch, Aragorn thought, was harder to endure than had the whip. And he could not avoid the hand. The Mouth seemed to sense this, felt his tension perhaps. That soft laughter again, so close that he could feel it more than hear.

_Breathe in…_

"Beg," his captor whispered. "Cry. Weep."

…  _breathe out._

Aragorn said nothing.

The Mouth laughed again. "Thou willt. In the end all Men break, and weep. But whether  _thou_  cryest now or later, maters not;  _he_  weeps now." Aragorn could feel him turn and strain, reaching for something. "I will be merciful, Steward," the Mouth said. "I will do better than give fresh straw; I will treat his wounds."

Salt! At the first touch of it, Aragorn tensed. Water ran down his back, stinging with salt: it was brine. He fought to escape the hand that rubbed it into his skin. In vain. He could not lift his head. His hands and legs were bound to the wall; the chains clinked and rattled, but did not budge. He hissed in pain.

The Mouth let go of his head, removed his hand.

Aragorn breathed hard. The salt stung his shoulders just as bad as at the first touch.

The handle of the bucket rattled, then the hands were back. One snaked up his chest and closed softly round his throat under the chin, gripping his jaw.

The other brought more saltwater.

He would not scream.  _He would not scream_. That thought he clung to when the Mouth continued to scrub his wounds with brine.

_He did not scream_. That thought he clung to when they had left and he lay there alone in the dark. He had not screamed or begged, and he had only shed a few tears. Those did not count; they were the body's tears of pain, not tears of defeat and despair. As were the croaking sounds he'd made.

_He did not scream_. That much control he still retained. He could not rise or turn; he could not stop his body fighting in vain. He could not stop them, could not avoid the pain. He could not even brush away the hair that stuck to his face. But  _he did not scream_!

It was a meagre comfort.

It was all he had.

…

_"The people of Gondor is stiff-necked, my Lord, and the fisherfolk of Dol Amroth more so."_

Dol Amroth and its people proved themselves hard to subdue. By the middle of May, the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr sent prince Imrahil there, to force the surrender of his people, which his soldiers had not been able to force. Under guard, the Prince was brought to the walls of his home, but he refused to order his men's surrender.

Up on the walls surrounding Dol Amroth, the sentinels stood. The fasthold lies high on the cliffs overlooking the bay, and they could see far. The village below lay empty, and beyond the enemy camp, out of reach from bowshot, teemed with soldiers. New troops had arrived the evening before, and the people prepared themselves for a new attack.

Soon, horns and drums were heard from the enemy camp. The sentinels gave their own warning, and the remaining defenders gathered on the walls. Up through the village, the enemy advanced. Tall men from the south marched with large shields in front, and behind them came orcs and evil men. They bore banners of black and red, and their shields covered them from any arrows the people of Dol Amroth could send. They halted within sight of the walls, and from behind the shield-wall, a voice rang out.

"Who inside speaks for all?"

From the walls of the stronghold, the answer came:

"Your demands and offers will not be heard. Begone! You have no need to ask for names, for whoever will answer, will all speak the same."

At that, the shield-wall opened, and a captain of the Corsairs stepped out. With him came also great Uruks, dragging with them the Prince of Dol Amroth. They forced him to his knees and held him there. From the walls came a murmur, and shouts of dismay, and the captain held up his hand to speak.

"Other prisoners we have beside, but until you open your gates, and the banners of your insolence no longer fly from your walls, the torment of your lord will not cease, and you will bear witness to it."

And the orcs strung him up in view of the walls until the gates were opened.

It took days before the people wavered. Imrahil — had he been able — would have prided himself of their perseverance.

The Prince's daughter and grandson were not found among the people, to his relief, and though the enemy searched, they were not found. It is thought that the people held out longer than they would, for their sake. The lady Lothíriel escaped with her brother's son, but four years of age, and none heard of her for five years thereafter.

The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr was not pleased.

_"The people of Gondor are stiff-necked."_

…

How long he lay there while he fought the pain, Aragorn did not know. The salt stung and stung and stung and did not let up. He could not hear any sound above his own breaths, stuttering and short. He was alone. The guards were gone; the sting remained.

He cried.

Then he cried. He screamed. He wept and raged. Alone in the darkness of a blindfold fitted too tight, he let himself voice the pain. When none would see and none would hear.

But some did.

Hands. Hands on his shoulder, his arms. He flinched away. He fought. He snarled. Like a beast, trapped and wounded, he snarled and fought against the touch of those hands.

They did not let go.

"My lord! My lord, be calm." A voice broke through his darkness. A voice, but not his guards'.  _Faramir_.

"Lord," Faramir said. "Be calm. The guards are gone, the Mouth… they are gone."

"Faramir." His voice was rough, but he stopped fighting. "Faramir."

"Sire." The hands moved, fumbled with the blindfold. "What can I do?"

Aragorn blinked. The light was dim, but still too bright. "Water…"

Faramir was gone and then back again just as quick. Aragorn twisted his neck around to see him; he had a bucket and was about the dip the blindfold into it when Aragorn spoke.

" _Daro_."

"My lord?" Faramir stopped, his hand hovering above the bucket. Whether on purpose or not, he too changed his speech into the Elvish tongue.

"Is it fresh?" Aragorn asked. He formed the words with care; his mouth was dry and stiff. "The water: is it fresh and clean?"

"Yes, it is fresh," Faramir answered, "and clean enough."

"Give me to drink first."

"Not that clean."

"Then it is not clean enough to use." Aragorn grit his teeth. His eyes had grown used to the light and he could see Faramir more clearly. He was pale and drawn, but no shadow had returned yet.

"The salt will sting a while longer," he told him, "but it will keep the wounds clean. I need water, though. If the water is too dirty…"

"What can I do, lord?"

"Can you free my bonds?"

"No."

Aragorn closed his eyes. The floor moved beneath him and the world span. The chains clinked as he tugged on them in frustration.

"Speak, then." Aragorn forced the words out, clipped and short. A few deep breaths to regain control, then he continued. "Tell me what tidings you know. I… I do not even know whether it is day or night."

"It is day," Faramir said. "The twenty-eighth of May; one month and nineteen days since our defeat."

"Since you surrender," Aragorn answered. "If this is the twenty-eighth, our defeat was two months and three days ago."

Faramir fell silent but he did not move away, and when Aragorn grasped in pain he took his hands and held them. Aragorn latched on and gripped tight. A few deep breaths, and then he loosened his grip.

"Is the pain easing?"

Aragorn shook his head. "No," he said. "But I can bear it better, for a while." He paused, and Faramir let go of his hands. He sat in silence, watching Aragorn.

"What would you order me to do, sire?" he asked at length.

"I bear no crown, Faramir, and I am a prisoner."

"And the men that followed you from the North, would you not still order them?" Faramir asked. "What would you have me do? You did not choose me to be your steward—"

"I would," Aragorn said. "If the choice had been mine. And I would have you do what is best for Gondor."

"Sire, you are Gondor."

Aragorn shook his head again.

"You are the king."

Aragorn closed his eyes. For a time he was silent, and when he spoke again his words were slow with many pauses. His hands were fists, and his knuckles white.

"I would not make any claim until it be seen whether we or Mordor should prevail. We did not; I am no king."

"Sire," Faramir said, "The claim has been made for you. Made and accepted."

"Then speak. Is all of Gondor lost or is there still some place that resist? Has any? How great is the army of the enemy? Have they moved on to Rohan, or is the whole army here?" Aragorn swallowed, and before he could continue, Faramir answered.

"Dol Amroth resists. Many of those that escaped before the enemy arrived chose to follow King Éomer to Rohan, but some sailed south, to warn the Southern fiefdoms."

Aragorn's hands unclenched, a little. "Éomer escaped the battle, then. I dared not trust that hope. Is Merry, the Halfling, safe?"

"He is with lord Éomer, as is the King's sister."

Even through the pain, Aragorn could hear a note in Faramir's voice at the mention of the Lady. "Éomer would not have left the Lady Éowyn behind," he said. "I was not sure whether he could convince Merry to leave or not. I am glad he did."

"Neither he nor Éowyn wished to leave."

Aragorn sighed. "I hoped she would have time to heal."

"She did."

Aragorn turned to look at Faramir. A long time, or so it seemed, he held his eyes, searching, and Faramir met his gaze and held it. Aragorn smiled.

"It is good," he said.

Faramir did not answer, but he looked away. A strip of white cloth was bound around his arm.

"Why did you stay, Faramir?"

"To hold the enemy as long as I could, and give Éomer King time to escape. The vanguard arrived shortly after; the enemy would have given pursuit had Minas Tirith not been held. It was my duty to stay, and hers to leave."

Aragorn nodded and asked no more. He closed his eyes and lay resting for a time, but the smile was still on his lips. Faramir said nothing and for a while, the room was silent. No sound breached the walls, for a time they could forget. Forget the world outside; forget demands and sorrow and pain.

Except that they could not.

Aragorn's breaths were harsh and quick, even at rest. The air was rank, and outside the Enemy waited, secure in their defeat. And Aragorn had questions yet.

"Has the Mouth sent any troops in pursuit of Éomer?"

"No," Faramir answered. "All troops have been used to secure Gondor. Many of the men from the Southern Fiefdoms used the ships you brought up the Anduin to escape down the river again. They were to spread words of our defeat, and the coming threat. That fleet have disappeared, it seems. Many of the men have returned to their homes, but some must have fled further, out to the sea, or to seek safer harbour north along the coast. Dol Amroth was warned; the messengers and soldiers found the castle closed against them.

The Mouth sent Imrahil there– some weeks ago– to force the castle's surrender. I have not heard tidings of the siege yet, but the Mouth is impatient. If the sons of Imrahil fell at the Morannon…"

"They did," Aragorn said. "Or so I heard, but the Mouth also claimed that Éomer had been slain."

"They were not in King Éomer's company, and Imrahil believes them dead. One of the Swan-knights who did escape, claimed that he had seen them fall, protecting the body of their father. But King Éomer believed the Prince dead, and yourself as well."

"If any of them lived and had been captured, the Mouth of Sauron would have brought them with us, I believe. A surer coin to buy Dol Amroth than a king they do not know. And Lord Imrahil would have been told, if only to torment him." Aragorn shifted, before he stilled again.

"Alphros is the heir then, Elphir's son. He is but a child; the Enemy will want him to shape him for his rule, or end the line."

"His other sons fathered no children?" Aragorn asked.

"No," Faramir replied. "But Alphros is far too young to rule yet; unless they have escaped when the warning came, the people would see to the Lady Lothíriel. She is both brave, and strong of mind, but I would not have though she would hold out this long with her father held hostage against her.

"I surrendered far quicker."

Faramir fell quiet. Aragorn's breaths were short and shallow and he shivered, but he said nothing. He could feel Faramir shift beside him.

"Lord…"

Aragorn cut him off before he could say anything more. "What freedom do you have, Faramir?"

"Little," the answer came. "Guards follow all my movements, but I am not locked in. I am Steward still, in name, and am charged with the duties of that office, but it is the Mouth that gives orders. If I fail to obey…" He paused. Aragorn's breath came faster. Uneven. He gripped the hand Faramir offered him and held it until his breath evened again.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

"You know."

Aragorn shook his head. "I know this part of it only," he said. "What is the other?"

"None, so far." Shadows flickered on Faramir's face, hiding his features.

"Faramir, you did not surrender for my sake alone."

Faramir did not answer. Silence filled the room, broken only by the rattle of chains. Aragorn turned his head to look at Faramir.

"Faramir."

His voice was hoarse and rasping, all gravel and deep earth. The name, whispered through walls and stone, echoed in Faramir's ears and tugged at the heartstrings of his soul. The memory of another darkness pressed around him, and at the voice of he who called him back, Faramir's resolve strengthened.

"You know the answer, sire."

"Do I, Steward?" The King's voice was stern, but not with anger. "Has my trust failed?"

More silence followed. Faramir moved, avoiding the King's eyes.

"So far no other consequences," Aragorn pressed. "But if you were to refuse now?"

"My guess," Faramir hesitated, "no – I do not guess, I know: the Mouth would rule himself, or appoint one of his captains should I refuse." He paused before he spoke again.

"I do not know whether my choices have been right."

Aragorn breathed, and some of the tension left him. "Choices," he said, and repeated the word. "Choices: you have some freedom then. You can still offer some protection to the people of Gondor."

"Did you not hear me, sire? I can do little; one step too far…"

"I will suffer, and if that does not help, you will be replaced. By one that will not do even little." He swallowed. "Faramir, you can slow evil; perhaps hinder that worse be done. Did you not surrender for this reason: that worse would not happen. Imrahil and I…"

"Would be dead had I not," Faramir interrupted.

"That is not the worse I speak of."

"I know." Faramir shook his head. "But it was what I could not bear."

"And this?" Aragorn asked. "Can you bear this again, if need be?"

"I do not know."

Neither had words to answer.

Faramir began to clean away what he could of the filth and stink. He worked in silence, and Aragorn did not speak for a while.

"Faramir," Aragorn said at length. "I claim no man's oath or obedience, but if you want my counsel then I say: better you than one of the enemy. You can hinder or delay the worst of the Enemy's demands, or try."

Faramir stopped his work. "Is that your wish?" he asked.

"I think it will be the lesser evil," Aragorn answered. "For the people of Gondor, if not for you."

"Not for you."

Aragorn shook his head. "I think yours will be the harder part." He sighed. "Faramir, I have been chained in the dark for two months …" he tugged at the chains; they rattled and did not budge. " … and three days. I cannot … " He swallowed.

"Sire," Faramir said.

"They have left you free to act. Do what you can."

"Sire, you will bear the brunt, and in the end it will make little difference."

"Give me purpose, Faramir. You cannot spare me pain."

Faramir hesitated. "And should the Enemy offer you the throne in more than name? Would you bear ruling as a vassal to the Shadow, my lord?"

Aragorn did not answer, could not answer. The Mouth's words rang in his mind:  _Would mayhap a king do better?_  He repeated what he knew.

"Yours will be the harder part."

"Lord Elfstone…"

"Aragorn," Aragorn interrupted. "If I need be Elfstone to the people, let it be so, but that name is now a mockery. ' Aragorn' I was named at birth, and now that must sustain me."

"Lord, if I might delay evil, could not you do the same?"

"Would you have me?"

Faramir hesitated again. The chains rattled, and Aragorn gripped his hand again. Wordlessly he waited until the grip eased and the breaths softened, before he spoke:

"No, Lord Aragorn. You are right: my rule might be the lesser evil, but we do not know what demands the Enemy would place upon yours. But even if he would place no other demands on you, I would say no. I fear what despair would come upon Gondor should we have no hope to cling to. There will be mockery enough.

"Sire, I will obey you wish," he said. "But if you ask for purpose, let it be this: do not break, lest Gondor lose the last of her pride."

"Gondor knows me not, Faramir."

"Minas Tirith does, and you won her heart when you became a healer. You won the heart of those that followed you from the south, and their word will spread." Faramir paused once more. "Know you the story of Húrin, lord?"

"Need I ask which one?" Aragorn coughed, but Faramir did not answer. "His is not a happy one, Faramir."

"Nor are ours, lord. But it is said that rumours of his steadfastness, and refusal to bend to Morogth's will, spread among the slaves of Angband. Gondor will need a hope that will not bend."

Aragorn shuddered at Faramir's words. "And so your roles are already cast," he muttered. "May the end not follow the past: it as a fateful role you give me, Steward."

"You wished for purpose, lord."

"And yours is still the harder part; my duty and my will, shall be the same." Aragorn closed his eye.  _At least I have no child._

"Then it is good, if any good can yet be had."

Aragorn nodded and said no more, but he smiled. Thin and wan his mouth was, and chapped from thirst. Almost Faramir was tempted to let him drink, despite the muddied water. But he did not. Faramir spoke instead, soft-voiced, telling of the City and the Mouth's orders. Aragorn was weary, and much of it he could not discern; he took comfort in the voice none the less, and the warmth of Faramir's body. In hands that were soft and light and words that did not mock.

…

" _The people of Gondor are stiff-necked, my Lord, and the fisher-folk of Dol Amroth more so,"_ the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr wrote. _"Their Prince leads them in this; he has refused to order their surrender, but his men falter and have grown reluctant to fight in the evidence of his torment. They will fall within the day. Still I deem that they will not bend easily to any ruler not of the House of Dol Amroth. Though Prince Imrahil has shown himself stubborn, it will be quicker to tame his people by breaking him to Your will, unless his heir or his daughter are still alive within the walls._

_I will therefore test whether his loyalty to Elessar runs deep enough to use. For this purpose he will be informed that Elessar will be whipped for his refusal. This will make no difference to Your plans for…"_

Here the letter breaks off. A part of the corner is missing, cutting the last word off at the letters ' _th_ '. We do not know how many pages are missing.

The siege of Dol Amroth was broken on the last day of May. If the Lieutenant judged the waning resistance of the people of Dol Amroth right, then the letter was written on the 29th of that month. Prince Imrahil returned on the eleventh of June.

But the whipping of the king Elessar occurred on the 27th, witnessed by the lord Faramir, the Haradrim healer, and the Lieutenant himself, and no record of a second whipping has been found, though the Prince bore witness that he saw the healing marks on the King's body when he was returned to Minas Tirith.

Some argue that the second whipping must have taken place without record, and with no healer present. Others, still believing that the Enemy would have risked two such harsh punishments being carried out within a fortnight, argue that the record must have been lost, for the Enemy had his servants record all their doings.

There are, however, those that hold that there was no second whipping. They argue that the servants of the Enemy repeatedly misjudged the resistance of the Free Peoples, thinking they would bend far quicker than they did. The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, they argue, could simply have been mistaken, and the letter written earlier.

While the fragment gives no other clues as to its date, it is my belief that they are mistaken. Other papers where found with the fragment, and though it can not be shown for certain that they are part of the same letter, I believe they are. While none of these papers speak of events later than the end of May, in one the rapport of the healer is mentioned. In another, it is noted that the law of widows and unwed women, had been passed, and so it is my belief that the letter was written between the 28th and the end of May.

It should be remembered, however, that the Enemy lied and deceived, and none should doubt that his servant, his Mouth and Lieutenant, followed his master also in this.

…

Aragorn learned the full extent of Faramir's disobedience when the guards at length returned. Faramir heard them before they reached the cell. He fumbled with the blindfold but woke Aragorn before he did anything else.

"The guards are coming back," he said. "There is not much time."

Aragorn mumbled something, still drowsy.

"Sire, forgive me; I have to put it back on."

"What?" Aragorn asked, confused by pain and sleep.

"The blindfold," Faramir answered. "I must put it back on; I was forbidden to speak with you, or let you know that I was here. If they find …"

Aragorn nodded.

He could not see where Faramir had gone when the guards came. Their footsteps were loud and the noise hid any sound the Steward might have made. They said little. Two entered his cell, but there could have been more; Aragorn could not tell. But more than one pair of hands loosened his bonds and hauled him up so he was sitting. He was given water, and he drank as much as they allowed him. The food was harder to swallow; old, dry bread and some stale cheese that was hard to chew. He ate slowly.

Afterwards they chained him down again and left.

He lay silent, listening to their footsteps disappearing, trying to hear whether they all had truly left this time.

He heard nothing but his own breaths. Faramir did not return and he dared not speak to find out.

…

Faramir was careful thereafter. The White Three was burned at the Mouth's order, but the burned stump could not be dug out from the ground. It remained, barely visible; a symbol of Gondor's defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: torture.
> 
> Notes on names and language:
> 
> Daro: (Sindarin) Stop/halt
> 
> "Aragorn I was named at birth": The only meaning of the name "Aragorn" that Tolkien has proposed, is "kingly valour". While it is not certain this was the final meaning, I have adopted it here. (See the foreword of HoME 12: The Peoples of Middle-earth)
> 
> A/N: My thanks to the people on The Garden of Ithilien and my beta JAUL for help with this chapter 
> 
> I have experimented a bit in this chapter, with the repetition of the quote: "The people of Gondor are stiff-necked" and I wonder if this was something that worked well or not. Too many repetitions? Didn't notice? Confusing standing alone like it did so many times? I would be very happy to hear your reactions (if you has any).


	7. The Memory of the Crowing of the King

Of his crowning, the King Elessar never spoke.

It was an event well documented, and we have many eyewitnesses whose stories have been written down; the people of Gondor and the peoples of the Enemy both have given accounts, and I have elsewhere recounted the Steward's words.

But the king was silent, and he never broke that silence in voice or writing. Only to his closest, did he divulge some glimpse of that day, and even then, it was through his silence rather than his words that they could guess the pain of the memory.

But despite the numerous accounts, only one has survived to tell us of what happened to the king outside the eyes of the crowd: the report written by the healer that tended the king.

_“The second time I was called to oversee Elessar's torment, was on the eve of the coronation. The call came from the Lord's Mouth – I was shown his tokens – but the Mouth was not present himself. The prisoner had been moved from his prison to the guardhouse at the Gate earlier that day, but when I arrived at the Gate, he had already been moved to the orc-camp outside the City._

_The Orcs had not been allowed inside the Gate since the Steward surrendered; only the Men in the service of the Great Lord dwelled within the City. But this night many Men were present in the orcs' camp; no doubt the Mouth wanted to ensure that no attempt of rescue or escape would succeed._

_I arrived to find the torment already begun._

_The prisoner was standing in a circle of Orcs and Men. He was bound with rope sent spinning from man to orc to man. None seemed to be in charge._

_The prisoner stumbled and fell several times, for his foot-chains were short, and each time he struggled to regain his feet. The orcs' encouragements did not aid his efforts, and the sound of their jeers were deafening. The men were hardly any quieter._

_At his fifth fall, the prisoner was unable to rise again. Then I found that captain Nagid was in charge; he ordered the crowd back and called for me. I had held myself ready to stop the proceedings if I deemed it necessary, and I therefore reached them quickly._

_The prisoner was blindfolded with a simple black cloth and gagged with a thin gag of iron. It was of the kind that traps the tongue so that the wearer cannot speak, but it does not muffle sound. I asked that it be removed, for the prisoner was bleeding from the mouth. The captain relented at length, for the Mouth's orders were very clear: no lasting damage, or too severe. The prisoner was to be able to stand come morning._

_The gag was sharp and spiked. It took time to verify that the bleeding only came from the pierced tongue, for the wound was bleeding freely and the prisoner did not cooperate. This surprised me, for on other occasions he had not resisted my treatments, and, after more than two months as a prisoner, he should not have the spirit to resist so. His strength speaks of the Great Lord's mercy to his conquered foes._

_I was, in the end, able to confirm that the bleeding came only from the wound in the prisoner's mouth, and that he was fit enough to continue. His ribs, however, were bruised if not cracked, and I advised that no further beatings be administered; I feared it would cause too severe damage. Captain Nagid listened to my advice. When he ordered the torment to continue, they used the Umbar ropes._

_Because of the great strain the ropes places upon the arms and shoulders, I made sure that the prisoner was not left hanging for too long. Often damage will occur even though no visible marks are left on the body, and to avoid this, I took great care to ensure that the prisoner was allowed frequent rests._

_Each time he was re-hung, the prisoner weakened a little, but he made few sounds. This made it harder for me to judge his true strength. Perhaps he was stronger than most men I have known; he bore the torment well and I did not see the signs of danger before it was too late._

_In truth, there were no signs to see, as often is the case with the ropes. The fourth time the prisoner was hoisted into the air, he screamed for his shoulders had been pulled from their place._

_I called for the prisoner to be lowered to the ground and the torment to end. The orcs were most displeased by this, but Captain Nagid heeded my advice and I was able to reset the shoulders. They should heal with little lasting harm._

_The prisoner was awake and aware through the whole.”_

…

After the healer had treated the prisoner, Captain Nagid asked him to join his wake. This the healer gladly accepted, for he was flattered that the captain should wish for his company. They stayed within sight of the prisoner, and it may be that the captain was less interested in the company of the healer, and more in keeping him close should there be any complications.

The prisoner was kept kneeling, and a guard of Orcs and Men were sat on him.

"You need not fear his escape, captain," the healer commented when he saw this. "I do not end a torment before there is need."

Captain Nagid did not answer at first. A cup of wine had been fetched for him and the healer, and the captain swirled the wine in his cup. He brought it to his nose and drew in the scent of it.

"This is a fine wine," he said. He sipped and let it linger on the tongue before he swallowed. "A gift from the Great Lord's servant to reward my humble service: my zealous dedication to the Great Lord's will. By my hand this brigand was brought down, and by my vigilance he has been kept. I will not let that vigilance slip so close to the end."

The healer nodded, and did not gainsay the captain. "And what will you do, captain, when the end is past? Surely the Great Lord's reward will be generous."

"I will go where the Great Lord orders," Captain Nagid said. "After tomorrow the Lord's servant will no longer need the hostages, and I will be allowed in the Great Lord's presence. No greater reward can I wish for."

"No greater reward is there," the healer agreed. "My own hopes are more modest: to return to my home, to the house of my father and the arms of my wife. To see again the colours of the sand and the wealth of the water holes. This land, for all the rivers and grass, do not suit me. Its people are ghosts, and they live without shame."

Captain Nagid swirled his cup once more. His eyes were on his captive, attentive to each expression and movement. Elessar would falter, falling forwards, and the guards would pull him back. He would sink back to sit on his heels, and the guards would pull him up to kneel properly. And their dance would start over.

The captain sipped his wine. "Some of the people have too much pride," he said. "They do not know when to bend." The prisoner swayed. He coughed, and blood fell from his mouth. Nagid turned to the healer.

"The southern shores of this land has a beauty unlike the dry lands of the sun," he said, "though their fishermen are unruly. If the Great Lord wishes, I shall make my home where the cliffs fall into the sea, until the Sea-Prince is broken to his will. Or even after." And in the corner of his eye, he noticed Elessar startle.

The healer answered with words of flattery, but it was not from those that Nagid smiled. He drained his cup and held it out to be filled anew. The camp around them was filled with laughter and song, in which the voices of Orcs and Men blended together. Elessar faltered again, and this time he hung slumped between the guards when they pulled him back. Nagid wondered if the healer would speak up, but the healer said nothing. The prisoner was still aware, that much Nagid could see, but it was clear that he could no longer hold himself up.

"The men are joyous." The healer strove to find some topic that would fill the silence of the captain, since his compliments earned him no favour.

"They have good reason," the captain answered. He smiled at the healer. "But I think we have neglected the guest of honour."

Nagid rose. Two steps brought him to the side of Elessar and he knelt down beside him. In his hand was still the cup of wine, newly filled. He swirled the wine under the captive's nose, and saw him smell it. Elessar swallowed at the scent, but he said nothing.

"Your brigand days have ended," Nagid told him. "You should join in our toast, Elessar." And he gave him of the wine to drink.

The taste of the wine lingered in the king's mouth even to the next day.

…

“The King will leave today.”

Faramir stood just inside the door. Imrahil was reminded of one day, too many years ago, when a young boy stood like that, just inside the door of his chamber, afraid to intrude, but needing to speak with his uncle. But the boy was grown, and Faramir should not have needed him now.

“Even if I had not already been told, I would have guessed it,” Imrahil said.

“He is strong.” Faramir spoke with hesitation in his voice. “His will is unbent, even now.”

Imrahil did not answer, and Faramir spoke again.

“Unlike me, he will not bow. I did not think, uncle, when I took up the Rod, that I would crown my King on the demand of Mordor, nor that I would bow to the Enemy and live. But he, mocked and humiliated, would not bend. I saw it in his eyes, his stance; that was my King, as noble and strong as my dreams could have made him.”

At the furthest corner of the cell, light fell down from a high window. Imrahil stood underneath it and his face and head was lit by it. He turned his face up; from where he stood, he could see a glimpse of the sky. Grey clouds covered it, and the air that drifted down smelled of rain. He beckoned Faramir, and the Steward came, so like and unlike the boy from all those years ago.

“The sun shone yesterday,” Imrahil said.

“Do you think me weak, uncle, that I weep to see him go?”

Imrahil turned towards his nephew. “It will rain today,” he said. “The sun will weep.”

He paused; a moment only, then spoke again. “I will leave as well. If not today, I will yet leave soon and follow our King.”

“And you, uncle, will you bend?”

Imrahil shook his head, but he said: “I do not know. In the end all men must bend, or be crushed. I do not know what choice will be left me.” And it seemed to Imrahil that his own voice shook, as if he had already been broken. “I do not know what choice I would make, were I free to choose.”

“And do you think me weak, Prince of Dol Amroth,” Faramir asked. “That I have already bowed?”

“In Dol Amroth,” Imrahil said, “there is a place where the cliffs rise steep up from the sea. The wind is harsh there, and the water churns white even on a quiet day. On the top of the outermost cliff, a birch grows. Small it is, bent and crooked like unto some tormented creature, pitiful and strange. No storm has torn it down; its roots cling to the bare rock and will not let go, however low the wind bend its trunk.

“The strong oaks, tall and unbending, would never have weathered one winter-storm upon that cliff.”

“Just of little understanding, then,” Faramir answered. “A simple 'yes' or 'no' would have sufficed.”

Imrahil smiled – he had not thought that even now he could smile as if nothing had changed – and he answered: “If you had a fault, son of Denethor, it was not of too little understanding.” He paused, and grew grave once more.

“Have you spoken with the King?” he asked.

“Yes,” Faramir answered. “Once, weeks ago.”

“What did he say?”

Faramir turned to gaze up toward the patch of sky. As he stood there, the sky darkened and heavy drops of rain began to fall. Imrahil waited, and the bars of the window grew wet with rain while Faramir stood silent.

“He asked me to do what I could to protect Gondor, even if it was just a little. To rule as his Steward for as long as I could bear. He told me to be the lesser evil.

“He said my part was the harder.”

The raindrops fell faster, until they could hear its drumming against stone.

“Did you not believe him, Steward of Gondor?” Imrahil asked. “Did you not believe him, that you would ask me about your strength?”

Faramir did not answer.

“This is no time for self-pity, Faramir.”

“No,” Faramir answered. “And I do not wallow in it.”

“Self-reproach, then.”

Faramir smiled. It was not a happy smile, but Imrahil took heart to see it nonetheless.

“What time, if not this?” Faramir asked, but his shoulders straightened and he seemed lighter, as if touched by some happy memory. “Still, though I may doubt my own strength, I will trust in his. His, and the strength of Éomer king: that those who have not yet fallen will find green grass un-shadowed by the evil we must endure. And as long as he will remain, un-broken, I will not utterly despair.”

Imrahil nodded; there were no more words he could say. They watched the rain, side by side, until the Steward was called away.

…

The rain fell, cold and unrelenting, for more than a month. The farmers feared for their crops, late in sowing, for the sun seemed to them weak and cold, and the rain turned many of the fields into mud where even grass grew slowly. It was the first of many summers with little growth, and it was later taken as an evil omen that the rain should begin on the day when the King was brought to Mordor, away from the land.

At the time, however, the rain was welcome, for little had fallen during the darkness, and what had fallen, had been full of ashes. And so it was that Aragorn left in the cleansing rain of mid-summer.

He welcomed it. His hands were bound, but his eyes were free, he was on horseback, and a cloak had been slung around him against the rain. His head was bare, and he turned his face towards the sky and let the water fall on his skin and soothe it.

The people of the City hid inside; the streets were almost empty but for those that had to brave the rain. _They_ hurried from doorway to doorway, to keep dry. At the third level, a group of children were playing in the puddles. They scattered before the soldiers. One of them caught the King's eye and stood staring at the side of the road while all its playmates fled.

It was a small child, too small to tell whether it was a boy or a girl, but Aragorn saw that a light shone in its eye. He held its gaze and smiled at the child as they rode past, twisting to look until the Road turned. When he turned back, he noticed for the first time that the windows of the houses were covered with black cloth, and on the sills, the people had put white flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An account of the coronation can be found in the first chapter of the first book: WGGG I: We May Yet Stand. Faramir’s account is given there, as well as a narration of the day itself.
> 
> My thanks, as always, to the people on The Garden of Ithilien and my beta JAUL. Also a thanks to Linda Hoyland for pointing me to some typos that slipped past even my beta.


	8. Returning Strenght

**Chapter nine: Returning Strength.**

It would be many years until the King was seen in Gondor again.

Elessar and Prince Imrahil were taken across the river, and further, even to the Tower of Barad-dûr itself. Bitter is that road, and the dust of that land dries the mouth. But the end of that road is more bitter still, and those that must endure it, pray that the end will not come. The very earth would cry out in fear, had it not long been silenced by the evil of that land; the evil that spread like rings in the water from the Dark Tower where the Dark Lord sat.

The hall of the Dark Lord rivalled the great caves of the Dwarrowdelf, Moria the dark, and no building of Man could equal it. The vaults were hidden in shadow, and shadows clung to the wall. So immense was the structure that even a great number of people seemed no more than a handful, skulking in the shades.

Sauron alone towered in that hall, a darkness deeper than shadows, dwarfing all others. It is told that when the King Elessar was brought before his throne, the King stood pale and unbended, withstanding the first onslaught of his will. The King's eyes burned, but he did not look at the throne.

And the Shadow, it is said, struck the King to the ground and burned him, for no other way could he make Elessar bend. And it is further said that the King defied the Shadow, swearing that he would never willingly serve Mordor.

In answer to his defiance, Sauron in turn swore that the Lord Elessar one day would bend and willingly give his allegiance.

…

East of Barad-dûr, several days of travel across the Gorgoroth, a branch of the Ash Mountains breaks off from the chain that marks the northern border of Mordor. It travels south and west to hem in the table-plain. At the root of one of the peaks, iron was to be found, and a mine lay there where the slaves of Mordor toiled.

In this mine worked many of the men captured in the Battle of the Black Gate, brought there to toil in the darkness until their strength broke, or old age made them feeble. There the slaves of Mordor became one, for the low tunnels bent the back of the tallest Man and the dirt of the work covered their hair and their skin. Born slaves or captives: they all became one, lost in the darkness that melts all differences, until the final equaliser, Death, released them. Few could remember themselves in that darkness, and those that did either died quickly or lingered long, according to their strength.

…

"Guards!"

Haldor was on the brink of sleep, but the shout woke him. Straightaway he was on his feet, but a hand pushed him back. He looked up, and the man put more pressure on him to keep him still.

"We need you whole, and you know it, Haldor."

Haldor knew. The wall was cold against his back, but smooth and even. It was too dark to see faces; they had put out the lights for the night in their corner of the cave.

"Taddal."

"Yes."

"You are unhurt; take Badhor and Durion with you and see why the guards come. They might bring something useful."

It was too soon for the guard to fetch them for work; too soon for them to bring … anything good. They both knew, but sometimes, sometimes it was worth the risk.

Taddal nodded. "As long as you stay here, Captain. At least until we know."

"Be careful."

Taddal nodded again, then he was away, the other two following. Haldor watched them, but their corner was too far from the door to see clearly. Safer, but a disadvantage should the guards bring food or other supplies.

Haldor could see his men — for they were his now — reach the door before it opened. Faron had sent many; the weaker pushed in front of the stronger.

They waited, in part hoping that the guards would pass their cell by.

They did not.

The door unlocked. Only the two Rangers, standing closest to the door, held their ground. The rest scrambled back.

A Man, flung in by the guards, crashed into Taddal, the closest of the two, taking him down with him.

"Be sure to treat him royally!"

The guards did not enter, they just laughed, closed the door, and locked it. Faron's men moved in on the new man, still on the ground.

"Dúnedain!"

Haldor snapped the command. Quickly the Rangers moved, Haldor leading them. He could not see Taddal, who was taller than any of Faron's men: he was still down, vulnerable. He could only see Badhor and Durion, trying to break through the ring of men. Haldor swore. They knew better; alone they could not hope to do more than be hurt with Taddal. And too many of the Rangers knew hurt.

Badhor turned.

"Haldor!" he called. "Quick! It's the Chieftain."

…

From the records of the mine we know that the King must have been kept for about three months in the Dark Tower, a time he seldom spoke of. On the entry for the 30th of September, the record says:

"The blessed servant of the Great Lord – may His fire ever light our paths – honoured me greatly: Into my keeping he gave the hostage of our Lord – may His fire always guide me – the king of the sea-devils: Elessar of Gondor. And His servant blessed me with a taste of His most holy presence; I was shaking with fear and awe long after the servant left me.

"The Lord's – His name be blessed – servant also charged me to follow His instructions of the treatment of the hostage. And I will not disappoint the Great Lord – may His fire reach to the ends of the world."

It is clear from the record that Commander Apam, a captain from beyond the Sea of Rhûn, wrote this shortly after the Nazgûl left. The next entry, directly below, is from later on the same day:

"The Lord – blessed is His guidance – in His wisdom had marked His hostage with His sign. I therefore anticipated no problems with the guards. My mistake — for which I will take full responsibility — was that I did not consider the stupidity of the orcs.

"I reprimanded Captain Gorgol, and let him deal with his men as he saw fit. He did so with the efficiency – and brutality – of his kind. I considered their punishment a little too severe, since I interrupted them before they had had time to harm the hostage gravely. Still, it will discourage further incidence, and orcs are easily replaced.

I also ordered the hostage's clothes to be cut, so that the mark can be clearly seen at all times, that no further misunderstandings may occur.

"In accordance to the Great Lord's instruction, the hostage was brought to the sixth cave. As we have yet to receive a replacement for our lost healer, the foresight of our Lord — wise beyond measure is He — is most fortunate: among the Northern workers there is less illness, and they recover quicker, and more often, from discipline than the rest. At least one of them must know something of healing."

...

The Rangers did not stop. They pressed forward, breaking through the rank of Faron's men, driving them back. Their faces were grim, and they would not be denied. They cleared the space around the two men, and let Haldor through, but held all others back. One, Haldor did not notice whom, had brought light.

Taddal covered a body with his own, but at Haldor's word he rolled quickly off, and knelt beside it on the floor.

Beside him, their Chieftain had curled up. He wore chains on his hands as well as his feet, and he was blindfolded, but Haldor knew him. All the Rangers did.

He, it seemed, did not know them.

Taddal tried to reach him, but he twisted away from him and Taddal seemed frightened by his reactions. It was not until Haldor ordered him to hold their Chieftain still, that Taddal finally managed, and Haldor was able to slip the blindfold off.

"Aragorn," he said. "Chieftain."

And it was at the speaking of his name that Aragorn calmed. He blinked against the light and reached for Haldor.

"It is I, Haldor," Haldor said. "And Taddal is here, and Badhor, and others of your men beside."

Aragorn swallowed, but did not speak at first. His mouth was bloody and there was a swelling underneath one eye that told Haldor it would blacken soon. The front of his shirt was torn, or cut, and on his breast-bone…

Haldor cursed.

On Aragorn's breast, just under the collarbone, the Eye was burnt into the skin. Red and ugly, no more than seven days old. Haldor froze to see the mark. His hands hovered above the blistered skin, but he dared not touch it lest he cause more pain.

Aragorn squinted against the light, but when he saw where Haldor looked, he flinched, and his grip on Haldor's arm tightened.

"Haldor?"

The Chieftain spoke like one who has been silent long. He blinked again.

"Yes."

Around them the Rangers stood, shoulder by shoulder. They kept the other prisoners at bay, and Haldor heard at the edge of his mind one of them say:

"You will not touch him."

Haldor did not hear an answer. The cave was quiet, but he paid it no attention. Let the other Rangers handle it.

"Chieftain, can you walk?"

"Yes, I was but stunned from the fall. Just help me stand."

He reached with both hands, the chains not quite long enough for him to move with ease. He swayed a little when they helped him to his feet, and he was lighter than Haldor expected. His hair, Haldor noted, had been cut, but was now regrown. He was thin, as if recovering from some illness, and above his blackening eye, there was a new scar. He bled from the corner of his mouth.

"Chieftain, are you…?"

"Well? No, but I am mostly unharmed."

But he did not protest when Haldor took his arm and helped him to their corner. The other Rangers surrounded them, and cleared the way. The other prisoners were quiet, hovering outside the circle of Rangers. Even Faron's men parted before them; wary of provoking the grim men who had shown themselves ruthless in the protection of their own. But their eyes followed them.

"Are all new prisoners greeted so?" the Chieftain asked.

"Largely," Haldor answered. "Not the silence, though."

"Or the restraint."

Taddal spoke under his breath, but Haldor heard him. The Chieftain made a sound, but Haldor could not make it out. Shadows and torchlight flickered across his face. Haldor studied him, leaving all worry about the cave to the men. The Chieftain walked as if he could not trust to his eyes, and though he held himself straight, he seemed to Haldor stiff, as if he forced himself to hold so. He had not stopped to wipe the blood from his mouth.

"Chieft…"

"Not now, Haldor."

"We are here."

The Rangers parted. Before them lay what looked like a smaller cave within the larger. The entrance too wide to be called a door, but the walls had narrowed to make a room of sort. A room with more protection than even Faron's corner had. Aragorn halted for a moment.

"I hope there is a bed waiting for me in there."

"A place to sleep," Taddal answered. "I would not honour it with the name of bed."

"Is it flat, with no gravel or sharp stones stuck to it?"

Something flickered across his face; Haldor could not make out the Chieftain's expression.

"There is straw," he answered.

"Such overwhelming hospitality." — did the Chieftain smile? — "It will turn me soft in my old age."

Haldor did not know what to answer. "Come," he said, and led the way to the back of their cave. "Sit, Chieftain, and let me see your wounds."

Aragorn sat, but he shook his head at Haldor's words. "When did you become a healer?" he asked. "I know I have men more skilled than you, Haldor."

"Not here. Not since Rhíhul died," Haldor replied. "The tunnel caved in about a week ago and he was caught under the stone. I am the closest we have, now, and it is more than others have." He paused. "I promise to treat your hurts after your orders, Chieftain, but you cannot heal yourself."

"My hurts are slight," Aragorn said. "Or such that you cannot treat. Not here, not without … anything. Mostly I need rest." He had closed his eyes, but Haldor did not think it was in pain.

"That … burn is not slight," Haldor said.

"And what have you to treat it with?"

Haldor had nothing, and Aragorn knew it.

"Even so," Haldor said, "let me see. When last any of us saw you … We did not dare hope to set eyes on you again. We need to know: what has been done to you?"

"No," Aragorn said. His voice was stern. "You cannot change what is in the past, and do but little to hinder anything Sauron" – he stumbled on the name, but spoke it – "might do in the future. Knowing will not help."

"Forgive me, lord." Haldor would gladly have withdrawn, but there were no others. Not here. Not now. "I sought but to ease our fear, which make the terror greater than knowledge will show. You look more hale than fear dared hope, and yet…" Haldor hesitated. "And yet we know, and therefore fear, what the guards might do. When we heard them coming, we feared they had come for one of us. We know what they do to those they take, and what state they are in, those that come back after the guards have entertained themselves. And what they do to new men. We…"

"They hardly touched me," Aragorn interrupted. "Their commander stopped them. I may have a bruised rib or two, but no other hidden injury." He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "The Enemy, it seems, has marked me. I am not to be touched." He gestured to the mark, and then paused.

"But I have walked for many days with little rest," he continued. "In the company of orcs and a Nazgûl. I may be unhurt in body, but I am weary. Too weary for tales."

"Let me at least wipe the blood from your face, before it dries. And though we have little with which to treat the burn, we have clean water, and some cloth with which to bind up wounds."

The Chieftain nodded his consent. "I had forgotten it," he said. His words slurred a little and he had closed his eyes. "Now that you mention it, it does itch." But he did not raise his hands to scratch, or check the wound on his lip. The skin around his eye was darkening already, and was almost swollen shut.

Durion approached them. He walked with a limp from the tangle with Faron's men, but he carried what little Rhíhul had gathered to help ease their hurts, before they lost him.

"I have his food-token as well," he said. He was speaking in a low voice, as if he feared to intrude. "One of Faron's men had gotten hold of it, but he dropped it when you came."

Haldor nodded. "Guard it for now," he said.

Aragorn had closed his eyes again, and Haldor could not tell if he heard them. He took the bag from Durion with a whispered "stay!" The Chieftain did not move or open an eye, but he asked:

"What do you have?"

"Not much, Chieftain," Haldor answered. "Scraps of cloth, mostly. Some of that salve the orcs use; Rhíhul did not like to use it, but he said it was better than nothing. One needle — I think Rhíhul managed to steal it from the healer they used to have here. A small piece of soap…"

The Chieftain held out his hand, but he still had not opened his eyes. Haldor gave him the bag.

"We have some food and water."

Aragorn had opened his eyes and rummaged through the bag. He only grunted in reply to Haldor's words.

"Not much, we only took for nine, but if you are hungry…?"

"It would do me little good right now," Aragorn answered, "but if the water is clean…"

"Clean enough, though we boil it before we drink. Rhíhul always insisted."

"Good."

Aragorn handed back the bag. He had kept a flat, smooth stone which Haldor never understood why was there. The Chieftain held it to his swollen eye.

"There is nothing that would help against such hurts I have," he said.

"The salve…"

"I have had enough of orcs and their salves."

The Chieftain's voice was sharp, and brooked no disagreement. Haldor did not argue. But he helped him drink when water came, and the Chieftain let him wash away the blood. Haldor felt him flinch under his hands, and he followed Haldor's movements with his good eye. His breath was even and measured, breathing in and out. He said nothing while Haldor worked, and it was not until Haldor put the water and cloth away, that the Chieftain let his eyes slide shut again.

"Chieftain?"

"I need rest, Haldor." Aragorn let his hand fall. For a moment Haldor thought he had fallen asleep sitting, but he opened his eye and handed Haldor the stone to put back in the bag. "For the first time since our capture, I can sleep safely." His eyes slid shut again, and Haldor nodded even though his Chieftain could not see it "The tales can wait till morning."

With the help of Durion, Haldor eased the Chieftain down until he lay on the straw. He gestured Durion to lie down as well. The Chieftain stirred to feel the body close to his.

"Sleep safely, Chieftain. 'tis but Durion: we sleep back to back for warmth. And safety, though none will come upon you unawares: we will keep watch. If you… ?"

"No," Aragorn answered. "I… I am not used to company, and was but startled. The last ti–" he stopped himself. "I might dream."

"We all do." Haldor saw that the Chieftain was still tense. "You are back with us, Chieftain, and we will give our lives for you."

"I know."

But the Chieftain did not relax, though his words were slow and full of sleep. He moved a little, and Durion lay still, as if frightened to move.

"How many survived?" Aragorn asked.

"Twelve survived the battle, that I know of," Haldor answered. "Only nine are left."

Aragorn nodded, but did not speak again. Haldor watched his body unclench, and his breath evened and grew deep and slow. And still Durion lay unmoving beside him.

"Sleep, Durion," Haldor said. "You, too, need the rest."

"What about Taddal?"

"I will see to him, but he, unlike you, does not limp." Haldor rose. "I leave the food and water: if he wakes…"

Durion nodded. "How much?"

Haldor hesitated. One more mouth. They had never taken more than they needed, and apart from the morning meal, no more food would come for days.

"As much as he needs. We will make do."

He left them and joined Taddal at the opening of the cave.

"How is he?"

The cave outside was quiet, but not with sleep. In Faron's corner, at the other side of the cave, light burned. It was the only light except for the Rangers'.

"He sleeps."

"Is that wise?" Taddal asked. "I saw the bruise on his face."

"I think so," Haldor answered. "He would have said otherwise."

In the silence, they could hear murmur from Faron's corner, but no words carried over to them. The Rangers were quiet, but only Durion and the Chieftain slept. Both Haldor and Taddal spoke in low voices.

"Did he say anything?"

"No, we will have to wait for the tale."

"It will not be good."

"No." They both knew it could not, even if the Chieftain was mostly unhurt in body. "I ordered Durion to sleep by him. He limped but I do not think he has other hurts. How fare you, Taddal? You must have taken the brunt."

"Not I: Durion did. I am well enough; most of my bruises are from the Chieftain, not Faron's men. They wanted his token, and his boots, no more, I guess. Though they might take a keener interest now." Taddal lowered his voice further. "We are watched."

Haldor glanced up at Faron's corner. There were movement among the light, but he would have men closer by. And there were others.

"I want two men at guard throughout the night," he ordered. "Let Durion sleep, but the rest of us shall take at least one turn. Let the men get as much sleep as they can between watches." Haldor knew the others heard him, yet none of them lay down. A few sat when Haldor glared at them.

"It is already done. Belith will join me soon."

Haldor nodded. "Which watch have you set me?"

"You will be busy elsewhere."

Taddal nodded towards a shadow halfway across the cave. Something stirred there, and a man stepped out and approached the Rangers. In the darkness of the cave he was a mere shadow himself. His gait was even, and his shoulders straight. He did not try to hide his path. They all saw him, and those that sat, rose, and all the Rangers joined Haldor and Taddal at the mouth of the cave.

A wall of Rangers met the man, and he stopped two steps away from it, inside the light from one of the torches. The torch burned steady, and though parts of his face were in shadow, Haldor knew him.

"What do you want, Thalion? Or are you running Faron's errands now?"

"You have taken in an outsider, Haldor," Thalion answered. "And shown your strength."

"We have before." Haldor's voice was short and clipped.

"Not like this, and not since Belith. Questions are asked."

"The Dúnedain might be few in the North, but we are more than a few handfuls."

They both stared at each other in silence. It was Haldor who broke it.

"You did not answer my question, Thalion. Are you running Faron's errands?"

"Faron knows you are less likely to answer one of his men, but you know I follow no man here."

"Not entirely by choice."

"Faron would welcome me."

It was true, yet Haldor did not trust him.

"Who is he?"

"Dúnadan. Both you and Faron know what lengths we will go to protect our own."

"I heard the guards. 'Royal' they said." Thalion held out his hands. "I mean no harm, as you should know."

Haldor nodded, but neither he nor the Rangers relaxed their stance. "Trust is too great a risk."

"At times it is," Thalion agreed. "Yet risk the tale, if nothing else."

Haldor did not answer. Behind him, the wall of Rangers closed further.

Thalion nodded as if a guess had been proved. "Trust begets trust," he said. "Too long have we lived apart, each man for himself, except for you. And because of you, this cave has less deaths and less illness. If my guess is right, he might change the way we all live: no longer apart, but all as you. You can ease that path, or block it at the beginning."

Haldor still did not answer. He could feel the cave breathing, awake and listening for his answer.

"What do you fear?" Thalion asked, but Haldor had no words.

"I fought at the Gate. I saw the promised King there, at a distance, clad in battle-gear. I was taken defending my fallen lord, or I would have joined the King's desperate charge. Do not keep to yourself a hope that may carry us all, Ranger."

Still Haldor said nothing, and the Rangers at his back were a silent promise. Thalion looked at them. They were grim, and their resolve was set. He turned back and let Haldor catch his eyes again. Long they stared at each other.

It was Thalion who broke the stare. He bowed. "You will sleep in safety tonight."

"What power have you to promise this?"

Thalion laughed. "Less than I wish," he admitted, "but more than you think. There are those who would follow my lead."

Haldor did not answer him, but he nodded. "Taddal," he said, holding Thalion's eyes.

"Captain."

"One-man watches throughout the night."

"Captain?"

"You and I will sleep here, to be woken should any approach."

Haldor did not turn away from Thalion to see Taddal nod, but Thalion saw. He bowed again, and turned to leave, but stopped and twisted back to once more look at Haldor. "We are honoured."

He said no more. He walked back, and Haldor saw men step out from the shadow Thalion had come from. They spread at Thalion's word, but one — Haldor thought he recognised one of Faron's men — nodded his head towards the far corner where there still was light.

"Stay with Belith on the first watch," Haldor told Taddal. "And wake me if any draws near. If he keeps his word, reduce the watch: we all need to be rested come morning."

"He guessed."

"Yes, and Faron will question him. But Thalion has no love for Faron; he was a knight of Dol Amroth."

"I do not trust him, and neither do you."

"You know why better than most. But we are Dúnedain, and our strength has returned."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on names:
> 
> The Rangerss names are made with the help of the Sindarin name frame on elffetish dot com.
> 
> Gorgol is an Orcish name taken from The Lay of Leithian (The Lays of Beleriand, HoME 3)
> 
> Apam is from Old Turkish.
> 
> …
> 
> A/N: Again my thanks go to the people on The Garden of Ithilien and my beta JAUL. Any remaining faults are entirely my own. And to Naith who gave me a list of mistakes which somehow had slipped past, they have now been fixed.
> 
>  
> 
> Also thanks to The Lauderdale for help with naming the Orc-captain: I am not very versed in things Orcish, so it was a great help to have a sounding-board.


	9. The Remnant

“You cannot keep him to yourself.”

“No?”

There was a pause. Aragorn was heavy with sleep, the world of dreams not yet melted into the waking world.

“You have not the right, and you may not even have the strength.”

Voices… Who were speaking? Warmth against his back. The rise and fall of slow breaths. Bodies around him, and voices. People.

“Test us, and you shall find neither lacking. We guarded him for many years, and his father, and his fathers before that. Do not speak to us about 'right', you who disallowed his longfather.”

“Yet he it was who brought the claim. Would you disallow it now?”

He knew the second voice, though distorted by suppressed anger. The name eluded him, but… voices. And warm, breathing bodies around him. When had he last woken with the warmth of the living around him?

“Haldor.”

A new voice, but yes: Haldor was the voice he knew. He moved, and the warmth behind him stiffened and sat up.

“Haldor!”

He knew the other voice too, but the name slipped him, buried in the fog of recline.

"He is waking."

The quarrel stopped. Movements and feet around him. Despite the knowledge at the edge of his mind, he curled in on himself. The warmth was gone. A hand, light and gentle, touched his shoulder. He flinched from it, startled by memories.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

The chains of his manacles rattled as he rolled. Cool, hard stone against his back. He squinted through his good eye, hands raised to cover his face.

“Chieftain? Aragorn?”

Haldor's voice.

"Easy, Chieftain. We are your men."

And they were. The Dúnedain. The fog broke, and Aragorn could have wept. He un-tensed and his hands fell. “Haldor,” he mumbled. He looked more clearly at Haldor. The man was worried. "I am unused to company," he said. A poor answer, but he had no other.

"There will soon be more," Haldor answered.

Torches and lamps were lit throughout the cave, and the sound of many men could be heard, even to their corner.

"How many?"

"We are fifty in this cell, more or less," Haldor answered, "but more toil in the mine. I do not know how many: at least three more cells break their fast with us, but I guess there are more. The mine is vast."

Aragorn nodded.

"The guards will soon come to take us to the morning meal, and then to work. But we have food here, if you wish…"

The last hung in the air, more question than statement. _Do you need it? Have you been fed?_

"I can wait." Aragorn answered both the spoken and unspoken questions. Haldor nodded, and ordered Durion, who hovered beside him, to hide the food and water. The young man bowed, and was off. Aragorn watched him go.

"Chieftain—" Haldor began, but he was interrupted by the shouts of " _Guards!"_ The sounds in the cave grew.

Men scrambled to their feet, and the flicker of haste and fear spread through the cave. Haldor rose.

"Chieftain, can you stand?"

Aragorn took the offered hand in reply. His body was stiff, but movement would help rid him of it. The Rangers flocked around him, as they had done the night before.

"Keep close to us." Haldor spoke quickly. "The guards are … easily bored, but at meal-time the other captives pose a greater threat."

"There is not enough food." Aragorn did not need to ask. He let his men herd him out of their room and into the larger cave. A man exchanged glances with Haldor, and a nod, and around the Rangers, more men gathered, taking their places as if trained. Haldor offered nothing to explain.

"We are given one meal a day," he answered Aragorn's statement instead. "One meal, which the guards are supposed to see to that we all eat. Thus we starve more slowly." Haldor reached inside his shirt and brought out a round, wooden disk hanging from a string. "Durion saved it for you. No token, no food. We are given one serving, but the guards are often blind. They check the tokens, not the faces." Aragorn took the disk, and Haldor continued. "Food is also given to each cave, and the guards leave it for us to share amongst ourselves. The more ore we haul, the more food, though other work may yield favours too."

"And that food…?" Aragorn could guess, but he would hear the answer.

"Left inside the door. We are strong enough to take what we need," Haldor answered. "Others are not."

They reached the door. Aragorn could hear footsteps on the other side. They were many, and their strides were heavy. His hearing sharpened by long darkness, he heard the slide of bolts, and the turning of keys. He flinched at the sound. Haldor gave no notice.

From the other side of the cave another group of men arrived. They counted more heads than the Rangers, but half of them — or more — had almost withered away; thin wraiths of men hovering around the stronger core, and at the front one ~~,~~ broad man. He was shorter than the Men of the North, but of stockier build.

His hair was dark, and his eyes a muddled blue-grey. He was the only one in the cave with flesh to spare.

The man stopped when he reached the Rangers, and stood there as if waiting for them to move aside. The Rangers did not budge, and the men around stood with them, though they shuffled in unease. The man observed them all, as if counting heads. Then his eye caught sight of Aragorn, the men a guard of honour around him.

He looked Aragorn up and down. Measuring. Weighing. Aragorn stared back. The man avoided his eyes, and turned to Haldor.

"So, Haldor," he said. "You have found your courage. Have you found your wit as well?"

But the door opened, and the guards barked their orders, "Move! Now!" and there was no time for Haldor to answer. Or for Aragorn to hear what he would have said.

"Do not speak so the guards can hear," Haldor whispered, covering his voice under the sound of movement. "And stay close."

"Anything else I should know?" Aragorn's voice was dry, yet his eyes gleamed. Haldor shook his head, but the tone in his Chieftain's words made him look one more time.

Aragorn held himself straight, restored by sleep, and but for one eye — which had blackened and closed during the night — Haldor spotted no hurt. No new hurt, he corrected himself. Slashed to the middle of the chest, the shirt did not hide the burn-mark of the Eye. The Chieftain moved as if it was not there, but Haldor could see that the burn had not healed. He had meant to ask, but now there was no time. The guards were close. Their workday began.

The Rangers moved with purpose. They kept Aragorn surrounded, shielding him from the other captives. And separating him from them. It was a lie, known but not acknowledged. Aragorn, too, felt the comfort of the lie, and clung to it while he gathered himself. The last time he had been surrounded by so many…

_Breathe. These are your men._

He followed his men, down the corridor and into a great cave. The walls were roughly hewn but the floor was covered in hard-packed earth, trampled by many feet. Along the walls torches lit up the room, and it was filled with men, and the noise of a crowd. Wooden tables and benches stood in row upon row, filled with eaters. Few looked up from their meal while there still was food in their bowls, but a few watched the Rangers when they came in. Aragorn did not notice, but his men did. Haldor kept close and guided him to the line for food, then to a table, sat him down and gave him a spoon. Aragorn ate. It was a thin gruel, with little grain and less taste, but Aragorn had not been fed since the orcs broke camp the day before.

"They fetched us last today," Taddal muttered. He sat at Aragorn's left hand.

"Faron does not look happy." Haldor, on Aragorn's right, spoke in the same, low voice.

"Faron?"

"You met him today." Haldor nodded towards the man; Faron was sitting a few tables down, surrounded by his own men, the stronger close, the weaker further away, and Aragorn recognised him. "He was one of Prince Imrahil's men-at-arms, but now he has the favour of the guards. Today it failed him. I know not why."

"I can guess," Aragorn said. The lie was still around him, promising safety. "My ill favour is greater than his good. The orcs were not happy to have their sport taken from them."

"Not the orcs alone." Taddal ate with bowed head, yet his eyes saw much.

"Not all orcs have sallow skin."

"Chieftain…"

The lie was close to breaking. Aragorn could hear it in Haldor's voice.

"They fear the mark of the Eye," he said. "Or the commander's wrath should they not heed it. They will not touch me." He added under his breath: "Not without leave."

Haldor said nothing, but Aragorn could see some of the tension leave him.

Through the rest of the meal the lie lasted. The Rangers always ate together, and they chose the tables and benches near the walls, but this day all those tables were taken. Haldor stayed close, and the Rangers kept their Chieftain between them. Even without the rangers, none of the other captives would have been able to come near: Thalion kept them at bay with the men he had gathered. Both the guards and the other prisoners noted the change: Thalion had kept to himself before, and never had the Rangers kept so close. And never since he gathered strength, had Faron and his men so carefully avoided them.

It was Gorgol, the captain of the orcs, who took it upon himself to shatter the lie.

"You! _Tark_!" he barked. The Rangers and the men of Gondor looked up, but the orc ignored them and focused on the one that did not.

"Too high and mighty for the likes of us, eh? Do not worry, _majesty_ ," he mocked, "we have just the place for you."

Aragorn did not answer. He scraped the last of his gruel from the bottom of the bowl. The sound of wood dragging over wood filled the cave, then Aragorn lifted the spoon and swallowed one last time. He put the spoon down before he raised his head. One eye blackened and swollen shut, but the orc captain could not endure the gaze of his other.

"No place is more fitting," Aragorn said, "than among my people."

His voice was even and measured, and in the silence of the room his words could clearly be heard by all. The Rangers gave no sign, but the Men of Gondor straightened and even the weakest of them felt, in that moment, strong.

"You belong where I tell you, _tark_!"

“Where I belong and where I must go is not the same thing.”

The Rangers rose, but Aragorn motioned them to remain. They did not sit down again, but they made no move to resist when the orcs closed in on their table. Aragorn rose to meet their captain.

Gorgol grabbed Aragorn and hauled him away from the table. Or tried to. Though Aragorn was thinner than he had been, he was tall still and not easily hauled anywhere. Not by a single orc. Aragorn twisted his arm free. He said nothing, and the orc seemed too angry for words. He lifted his hand to strike, but Aragorn faced him without blinking. The cut shirt drew the eyes of the orc to the burn-mark on Aragorn's chest. Unhealed, the Eye was still clear. The captain let his hand fall. Aragorn held his eyes a moment longer, then he said:

“I can walk unaided.”

…

"Kneel!"

Aragorn ignored the order. The orc captain growled, but Aragorn would not show him fear. Fear would not serve him, though the orc might be pleased to see it. Aragorn had no intention to please him.

"Kneel!"

The command hung in the air. Aragorn kept his eyes on the commander, Apam, an Easterling. He has taller than most of the orcs, but far shorter than the Dúnedain — whether from the North or South — or even the Rohirrim.

The orc lost his patience and forced Aragorn down until he was kneeling with his hands behind his head. Aragorn held the commander's eyes, as if nothing the orc did mattered.

Commander Apam did not turn away or avert his eyes. Few of the enemy had been able to hold Aragorn's gaze for long, but this commander did. He sat on a chair beside a desk filled with scrolls and pergaments.

"I hope you have had a restful night, Elessar," the commander said. His voice, like his bearing, was calm and unyielding.

Aragorn did not answer. The stone was hard underneath his knees, but worn smooth by many feet.

"The Great Lord — His name be blessed — has shown you great mercy. Yet you will repay courtesy with rudeness?"

The commander's face was clam, he did not raise his voice, but the orc-captain shook Aragorn.

"Captain Gorgol." Nothing more, and the orc stopped. "Elessar," the commander continued, "will you not speak?"

"Courtesy is more than words," Aragorn answered. "I have yet to encounter it under the Shadow."

"You will learn to recognise it soon enough." Still that calm voice. "And to speak courteous in answer. For now it is enough that you see and listen." He turned, but Aragorn did not think it was to avoid his eyes. From the desk he picked up a pergament, and then turned back.

"All the workers in this mine are here to atone for their crimes against the Great Lord - may His wisdom guide us all."

Aragorn said nothing, did nothing. He did not even strain against the orc's hold, but his eyes darkened.

"I have been charged with the overseeing of this atonement, and to help any who are willing to change their ways to do so. For the Great Lord is the bringer of gifts, and His mercy extends even to His most stubborn and evil enemies.

"You, Elessar, being a hostage, are not except from either work or any other rule, but I have been given instructions." He paused, and watched Aragorn, but Aragorn refused to show him his thoughts.

"As you have understood, the Great Lord — may His reign never end — do not wish that you suffer bodily harm during your stay, for the Lord — wise beyond measure is He — will not break the promise He has given your Steward."

Aragorn did not move, but still the commander must have seen something in his face.

"You will work and obey as the others do," he said. "Do not think otherwise."

"My thoughts are my own," Aragorn answered.

"Not anymore."

At this, Aragorn's lips curled, and the commander blinked.

"I come from Barad-dûr," Aragorn said. "Do you think I will fear you and your orc?"

"I am not without resources," the commander said. "And there are other ways to make a man obey, than by pain of the body."

"You think your master has not tried them?"

The commander regarded Aragorn for a time. "The Great Lord — may His guidance never leave us — is wise," he said. "And I can not compare with His wisdom. But your men are here.

"Captain Gorgol, tell me about the meal."

Aragorn spoke before the orc could: "I understand the threat well enough. Sauron did not send me here on a whim, nor did you act on one when you sent me to a cell which holds so many of my men." He paused, and his eyes hardened. "But you are mistaken if you think you can use them against me. Sauron knows this."

"You care so little for your men?"

No repercussion for speaking out of turn. The commander must have gotten something he wanted. _Take care._

Even so, Aragorn straightened. He might have been on his knees, but it did not matter: the commander drew back, and his eyes flickered.

"I am a hostage," Aragorn said. "Before the walls of Cair Andros I bade the men resist, and not heed any threats to my life or body. Before the walls of Minas Tirith, I would have done the same. I will not make my men live knowing they have been used against me." _And I promised, and not to Faramir alone_. But _that_ Aragorn held to himself. He had already said too much.

The commander recovered quickly. "I see that you have still to learn." He rose. "Bring him."

The Orc hoisted Aragorn to his feet. "I saw you with your men, _tark_ ,” he said. His breath was hot against Aragorn's skin, and his grip was strong. Aragorn had no leverage to break free from him. "I saw how they looked, how they moved and acted. Proud, but that pride is in vain. You'll see." The commander had already left the room, but the captain held Aragorn back. "I will break every one of them, and you will help me do it."

Aragorn shook his head. "I will never break by _your_ hand. You think Sauron will reward you? You can not even raise your hand to me."

"That's your mistake. One day the commander will order punishment, and I will be there to deliver it. I'll get to tan your hide, _tark_ , and you will learn to fear my hand."

"I have seen things far more fearsome than _you."_

"Captain Gorgol!" The commander stood in the door. "I gave an order."

The orc cursed, but kept his voice too low for the commander to hear. He pushed Aragorn forward. He had to let go of him at the same time, and Aragorn slipped his hands forward over his head. He followed the commander, not wanting to give the orc an excuse to grab him again.

The tunnels twisted and turned, but they were well lit. The commander did not turn to see if he followed, but the orc-captain walked close behind; Aragorn guessed the commander did not need to check.

They did not walk for long until the commander stopped. Another room, or cave, lay on the left. The door was closed, but the commander needed no key to open it. Again, he did not check whether Aragorn followed, and Aragorn hesitated at the door. The orc made sure he did not hesitate too long.

Smoke filled his eyes — the sour smoke of bad torches. The cave was full of them, and despite the spluttering lights, Aragorn could see. He could see well enough to understand what the cave was.

"Kneel!"

The floor was rough, full of uneven, sharp edges. Aragorn did not wait for the orc to kick his feet from under him.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Some fights were not worth fighting. 

The orc grabbed the chain of his manacles and forced them back up above his head. He held it, and Aragorn's hair, in the same grip. For good measure.

"Most punishments are public," the commander said. "We find that it helps build discipline."

The idea was not unknown to him; the armies of Rohan and Gondor did the same.

"The punishments differ according to the infractions, of course," Commander Apam continued. "The most common is a few strikes with whip or stick. Enough to drive the lesson through. I am sure you are familiar with the proceedings."

Aragorn did not answer; there was no reason to.

"But do not fear. Unless my orders change, this is not a punishment which you will be subjected to." The commander spoke as if informing Aragorn that he would not be expected to eat with the commoners. "But, we also have other means of correction, for when a prisoner's ability to work is not to be hindered.

"Are you familiar with its use?"

The orc pulled on Aragorn's hair, forcing him to look at the cage that stood in the middle of the room.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

"I see that you are." Commander Apam did not need further answers, and Aragorn gave none.

"We have one at the entrance to the mines proper, so that the workers can witness any punishment: this one is for more private corrections. I believe that Captain Gorgol has one at the orc's quarters as well, and I am sure he can find one to bring to my office, should it be needed."

Commander Apam said nothing more. He watched Aragorn, and waited.

 _He cannot move. The darkness is all around him, thick and heavy. Tendrils of fear creeping through the walls; unnatural fear of pale green and wraiths. Suffocating him, seeking entrance to his mind, hammering against his thoughts. And he_ can not move!

_Some fights are not worth fighting._

Aragorn swallowed. "I see."

"It is well that you do." The commander nodded and the captain let Aragorn go. "Take him away. I am sure you can find a task fitting our Lord's — may His mercy never leave us —hostage."

…

When the Chieftain made to follow the orcs, Haldor moved. He did not known what he would do – he had no plan – but he knew he could not let the orc-guards take the Chieftain away. Not so soon. Not without trying. Aragorn stopped him with one word. He was Chieftain still, and King, if the guards spoke truth, and Haldor obeyed. He caught a flash in the Chieftain's eye as he sat down. Gratitude? Or relief? Haldor did not know.

But he sat, obedient, and did nothing, while Aragorn followed the orcs. The others followed his example. Taddal took the Chieftain’s bowl, to retrieve his token with his own. They all refused to think he would not need it.

All that day, if day it was, Haldor toiled in the mines. He had been ordered to dig for ore, and for this once he would gladly have pushed the wagons that brought ore and slag up to the upper levels to be sorted. That task was the worst: alone and chained to the cart the prisoners were helpless. But Haldor would gladly have risked it – they were helpless wherever they worked, he argued to himself – for the chance of glimpsing his Chieftain: the wagons moved all over the mines.

Instead, Haldor was stuck at the lower levels of the mine. Thalion worked close by, and Taddal beyond that. The rest of the workers were from other cells. Most of them Men of Gondor.

They worked in silence, hours by backbreaking hours, until they had no strength left for anything but the next stroke. Still Haldor worried, and no weariness could drive the worry away.

It was not until work ended, and they all were returned to the cells, that his worry faded. Not until he saw his Chieftain again.

…

The Chieftain was in the cell when Haldor came, one of the last to make it back from work. The guards had kept Haldor longer than any of the other workers, but they had not touched him. Haldor’s worry for his Chieftain drove all worry for himself away, and it was not until later he wondered why they had left him untouched.

Two Rangers stood guard at the entrance of their small cave. They were blocking Thalion, keeping him from entering. He turned to Haldor when he approached, but Haldor ignored him. He only nodded to the two Rangers and closed his ears to Thalion’s words; all he thought of, was to find his Chieftain.

Aragorn sat by the wall, close to the place he slept the night before. The other Rangers kept close, shielding him from all other eyes. They shared what water there was, but few talked. Haldor could not see any new marks on his Chieftain, and to his relief the iron had been taken off his hands, if not his legs. They all wore foot-irons, though.

“Chieftain, are you well?” Haldor needed to be sure. He crouched down in front of Aragorn, and Aragorn looked up at him.

“Are you all here?” he asked. “Every ranger have asked me the same – and I think the rest of the men here would as well if you would let them near – and I do not wish to tell my tale more than once.”

Before Haldor could answer, Thalion spoke from behind the wall of Rangers, his voice loud and refusing to go unheard:

“My Lord King! We would also wish to hear, both of the King's health and what tidings the King might have to share.”

Haldor rose to face Thalion. “We have spoken before,” he said. He had caught the wince on the Chieftain's face. But before he could speak on, his Chieftain interrupted.

“I need no spokesman, Haldor.” Aragorn rose and walked up to Thalion; the rangers parted to let him through. “Do you speak for the others here?” he asked. His voice was rough, all gravel and sand. “I have no voice to speak for long, or to all at once.”

Thalion bowed. “I can speak to the rest, Lord King.”

"What is your name?" Aragorn asked

Thalion straightened. "I am Thalion son of Hadron, my lord," he answered. "I was a knight of Dol Amroth."

"Prince Imrahil is a noble man," Aragorn said. "Join us, Thalion son of Hadron: knight of Dol Amroth."

"My King Elessar," Thalion answered, and bowed. "Lord Imrahil would not serve a lesser man: accept my service in his name. As I am able, I will serve."

Haldor did not miss how the Chieftain winced at the title, but Aragorn said nothing. He turned and sat down by the wall again. Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned his head against his knees and waited until they all had settled around him. Haldor gestured four of the rangers to stand guard; while none besides Thalion had approached them, Haldor still did not trust any but his men to come close.

"What can you tell me?" Aragorn lifted his head and looked at Haldor.

"Less than you can tell us, Chieftain," Haldor answered. "On the day after the battle, those of us deemed fit enough, were set to clean the battle-field: to sort through and bury the dead. Four days I laboured there, sorting through the dead, before the enemy decided that the field was clean enough. The carrion-crows and the ravens grew fat while we worked, feasting on the fallen." He paused, lost in his memories. "I found Seron on the first day. He lay at the foot of the slag-hills, fallen in the first lines."

"Who else did you find?" Aragorn asked. _Who else do we know is dead?_

"I found none other of those that rode south with us," Haldor answered. "But only ten have I seen since the battle, and we do not know what fate the rest met." He hesitated. "One other I found from the North. Buried under a hill-troll on the slope he lay, the hobbit. Crushed by the weight."

Aragorn bent his head again. His hands clenched. Haldor waited, but the Chieftain did not speak, not even to urge him on. Haldor continued.

"I brought him to one of the pools. Both he and Seron rests beneath the waters: the carrion-birds will not disturb them."

Aragorn nodded, but he did not raise his head.

"Hadron and Marad we also know are dead," Haldor continued. "And Rhíhul died not two weeks ago, if our reckoning is right; we cannot tell the days for sure down here." He paused again, uncertain of whether he should speak on. Aragorn said nothing, did not move, but his unspoken question Haldor could not escape:

_Who else is dead?_

"Of the Dwarf or the Elf we have heard nothing." Some names Haldor dared not speak, even now. "And the fate of the sons of Elrond…"

"I found an Elf on the battle-field," Thalion interrupted. Haldor would have reproached him — or at least glared — had he had the heart to do so.

"He lay halfway to the Teeth." Thalion continued as if he was glad to tell his tale. "Orcs lay fallen around him, strewn like leaves around the trees in autumn. His hair was dark, but if he bore any device or sign I could not see it; the mud of the field covered him."

"Elladan," Aragorn said. The Chieftain did not raise his head. "It was Elladan, son of Lord Elrond."

"Chieftain?"

Aragorn ignored the question. He raised his head to look at Thalion. "Where did you bury him?"

"I did not." Thalion met Aragorn's gaze, but his voice was heavy: that much sense he had. "I could not. I brought him to the carts, but there were two orcs among the guards; when they saw the body, they cried in glee and carried him away. I did not see them again."

Aragorn closed his eyes. His knuckles whitened, and his hands shook slightly.

"Chieftain?" Haldor asked again.

Aragorn opened his eyes, but they were distant; he saw into memories, but what memories Haldor could not tell. When he spoke, his voice did not tremble or hitch, but it was dead.

"Elrohir told me of his brother's death. Less than a month ago I guess it was, though I could not count the days. He said he had never expected to outlive his brother by so long."

"Lord Elrohir still lives?" Haldor asked. "Chieftain, where…?"

"No," Aragorn answered. He crossed his arms, hid this hands underneath his armpits. "They are both dead, now." He made as if to say more, but stopped himself and fell silent, and the Rangers did not press him. Even Thalion waited in silence. But Aragorn never spoke of Elrohir again, save to one. When he broke the silence, it was to speak of other things; of Imrahil and the healer and the fall of Minas Tirith.

"I do not know how much time has passed since our defeat," he said. "I was taken to the Dark Tower after Midsummer, but I do not know how long they kept me there."

"By the time of work and the time of rest, we reckon that half a year has already passed," Haldor answered.

"Chieftain," Taddal said. "Why were you held in Minas Tirith for so long?"

"Lord Imrahil and I were brought to ensure the Steward's surrender." Aragorn's voice was flat.

"But he surrendered long before Midsummer. Forgive me, Chieftain, but there must be more to that tale."

"Yes," Aragorn answered, "but I will not speak of it."

And he did not. It was not until later that they learned about the coronation, and not from the King Elessar himself. He asked them instead to tell what had happened to them after the first night, and how they had come to this mine. Haldor spoke for them, telling of the long walk when they were forced, chained in rows, to march across the Dark Land.

“I was not questioned," Haldor said. "Perhaps they did not see the need. I was sent here and put to work at once; they did not even ask me my name, but branded me with a number.”

“We all were,” Durion broke in. “The healers sorted us by strength and injuries, and now we are but bodies to toil and sweat and increase the Enemy's hoard.”

Aragorn shook his head. “To strengthen his armies and weapons: it is iron we dig, not gold.”

Haldor nodded. “At first there were only Men here, old slaves or prisoners from the battle. Not all have survived, but since then, more slaves have arrived. It is hard to tell time here with no sun or moon, but I guess it was some months after our defeat.

“The new slaves are Elves, Chieftain. They keep us apart, but during the work our paths sometimes cross close enough to see.”

“Do you know where they are from?” Aragorn asked.

“Some of them,” Haldor answered. “I recognised an elf from lord Elrond's household, and a few looked like they could have been from the Golden Wood. But if people from both Imladis and Lothlórien have been captured…?”

“Both Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel and in the Enemy's hands,” Aragorn said. “I have seen them.” He unfolded his arms, and rubbed his wrists. The skin was red and shafted, but unbroken. Haldor wondered how long he had borne chains: there were marks which told of wounds and healing.

"The Enemy must have had troops further north already," Aragorn continued, "or the North would not have fallen as quick. I have heard no tidings of Mirkwood, or of Dain's kingdom or Dale, but that means little. What I was told, was not to bring tidings."

"And can we trust what have been told?”

"Not all. The Mouth told me that Éomer King had fallen, but I learned later that it was not so. He escaped, as I had hoped, and brought warning to Minas Tirith. The Lady Éowyn and Merry, the hobbit, went with him when he fled further, and with him went those that could." Aragorn let his hands rest, and leant back against the wall. "I do not think Rohan has fallen yet.

“But these are matters we can do little about. What of this place? How many work in the mine, and how many guards are there?”

“We work in shifts,” Haldor answered. “It is impossible to tell how many prisoners there are here. This cell, and each in this corridor I guess, holds at least fifty men, but I do not know how many cells there are. And there are other corridors. There could be hundreds of us; I have not seen all the tunnels of the mine."

"And guards?"

"When we work, it looks like there are one or two guards on duty for any ten of us."

“Too few to watch us all at once, then,” Aragorn said. “And the tunnels and shafts are narrow and dark.”

“Chieftain?”

Aragorn did not answer. “Where are we now?” he asked instead. “I… could not see the way.”

“The Ash Mountains,” Haldor said. “Five or six days' march south-east the Tower. I think; the sun was hidden.” He caught a glint in his Chieftain's eye, the first since he had been returned to them. He winced. “We are deep into the Dark Land,” he said. “The Ered Lithui…”

“I know,” Aragorn answered. His eyes hardened. “It can still be done.”

“With luck perhaps one or two could escape the mine, and even keep hidden long enough to reach the outer mountains,” Haldor concurred. “But then? Even if the mountains can be travelled, there will be no food or water.”

Badhor interrupted: “Better to die up there, than to live here.”

Haldor turned to Badhor. “Death is easy," he said. "And easy to find in this place. Have you not been there yet; at the edge of the shaft plunging down so deep, it could as well have been the chasm beneath the bridge of Khazad-dûm? Where the upward draft of air is hot and sulphurous as a dragon's breath? I have. I have seen the darkness of that pit, and smelled that air, and knew that one more step, one small step will free me from these chains. One step, and I am flying on the warm air, and the guards cannot stop me.”

He fell silent, but Badhor answered: “I have. I stood there with my brother by my side.

“He stepped. I remain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry it has taken so long to get the new chapter uploaded. I became aware of later developments which meant I had to do some changes to this chapter, and I needed to decide on some changes to the coming events before I could make all the changes. The next chapter, too, might take more work to ready for publishing, but I hope to get back to my regular postings before summer.
> 
> Thanks, as always, goes to the wonderful people on Garden of Ithilien and my beta JAUL who helps me weed out those pesky mistakes. If any remains, they are entirely my own fault. I also need to thank the people on Writers Anonymous who helped me with making up my mind on the later events.
> 
> Some typos fixed: Thanks to Madame Girly


	10. This Shall Too

The council — if council it could be called — ended soon after Badhor fell silent. Much was left unsaid, and the unsaid words hung around them, known but unacknowledged. Most of the Rangers rose, but Thalion lingered. Aragorn had closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. He did not stir when Thalion cleared his throat to speak, and both Haldor and Taddal glared at the knight. He rose.

"I will bring these tiding to the rest," he said. Haldor was sure those were not the words he wished to say.

Aragorn nodded, but did not open his eyes. Thalion still bowed to him. "My lord king."

Haldor sat close to the Chieftain, close enough to feel him flinch, though his face showed little. But he opened his eyes and answered: "Thalion, son of Hadron. Would that your father named you well."

Thalion did not answer, but he bowed once more and turned to leave. Taddal rose as well, and followed Thalion to the entrance, leaving Haldor with the Chieftain. The Chieftain closed his eyes again, and while Haldor wished to leave, one look from Taddal made him stay.

_It should not be me._

Now, more than ever, he wished Halbarad had not died. This task was his, not Haldor's. But there were no other. Haldor missed his brother. Younger, perhaps, but closer to the Chieftain, and higher in rank. And less tongue-tied. None of them were here. The Chieftain said nothing, and Haldor knew that if he did not find the words to speak, the Chieftain would not volunteer his.

But it was the Chieftain who broke the silence.

"Captain," he said. Haldor winced at the title.

_Who had told?_

"You have gained a new title in my absence, it seems," the Chieftain continued. "I do not recall bestowing it."

"There was need," Haldor replied. "There was no other."

He turned his eyes away from his Chieftain and watched the Rangers. Taddal stood by the entrance with the men on guard, talking in a low voice. Filling them in. The others kept their distance, preparing for the evening meal. Durion had already fetched the food from its hiding-place, and Belith… Belith had lit a fire, small and with little smoke. The wood would not last much longer, but it was dry. The light from the flames flickered over his face, chasing the shadows over his features. In the flicker, Belith's face looked right.

"No other?" the Chieftain echoed. "I see Belith, doing kitchen-duty."

The voice was still low, but now the steel was clear. The Chieftain said no more, his silence a demand that Haldor explain.

“Chieftain, I…” Haldor faltered, but the Chieftain did not fill up the silence. Haldor had to fill it himself. But he could not find the words, though he searched, and the Chieftain did not help, he just waited, the demand hanging over Haldor until words forced their way out his mouth. The wrong words.

"I am not the only one who has gained a new title, my lord."

The silence changed, became hard and tense. Haldor winced, cursing the words he had not even known he would say before he heard his own voice.

"I am your Chieftain still, Haldor."

"Lord, I spoke out of turn."

The tension faded, but the steel remained. "Tell me," the Chieftain said. "Tell me that which none of you would say in Thalion's hearing."

"It should not be me: the story should be Belith's to tell," Haldor said, "but he can no longer tell it."

"I did not see him until this evening." The steel softened in the Chieftain's voice. "He has kept away from me, and you all have made sure he could."

"He…" Haldor faltered. "You will see, though it will cause him pain, I think. He no longer speaks, but sometimes we can glimpse, behind his eyes, his old self. Locked in, where he cannot even scream. And we can do nothing to help."

The Chieftain's voice softened further. "I do not know if I could, either. Not without _athelas._ And not without knowing what has happened."

Haldor turned to look at his Chieftain. He had opened his eyes and met Haldor's gaze. Haldor looked away, but found his words.

"We were betrayed," Haldor began. "We do not know by whom, but it happened not long after Thalion arrived. I do not know why so many of us were gathered together, but it made us the stronger.

"Belith led us. Faron had no followers yet —it was too early and we were all lost. Only our bond and Belith's strength kept us together those first days. And our old purpose held when all else failed: to keep evil at bay though hope and light would fade. The guards, the orc-captain especially, were not happy, but we broke none of the rules imposed on us. Among the prisoners, some sought to win favours from us with flattery, and some, of whom Faron became the chief, gathered strength against us.

Food was the main conflict, never enough to feed us all. On Belith's order we shared it among us, making sure all would have equal share though many tried to secure a larger part."

"Hunger makes even good men desperate," the Chieftain said.

 Haldor risked a new glance. The Chieftain sat as before, with eyes closed, and to Haldor it seemed as if the darkness around him grew thicker. That his eyes were closed against the dark rather than the light.

"True." Still, Haldor would not speak against Belith's choice. "Yet how can one eat while others starve?"

"Out of their sight." But the Chieftain's voice was tired and despondent. He sighed. "I cannot fault Belith in this, nor you in choosing otherwise — not before I hear the tale in full."

Haldor nodded. "Thalion were among those who sought to gain our trust. Perhaps we gave it too willingly, but we are few, and Thalion asked no favours. Faron seemed to us the greater threat, more than the guards who mainly saw us to work, and left us to our own once the work was past. And there is little love lost between Thalion and Faron. Faron was but a common soldier of Dol Amroth, and Thalion a knight.

"But we were betrayed. One day the orc-captain claimed we planned rebellion, that someone in this cell had told him of our plans. We do not know whom, but the Commander believed him. Some of our words had been reported; they were not unfounded accusations.”

"Not unfounded, or not untrue?" The Chieftain opened his eyes again, and caught Haldor with them, seeking the truth.

"We were not ready to accept defeat," Haldor answered. "But rebellion… We saw quickly that we are too few. Even if the whole of this cell would unite, the guards are too many, and we too weak. Though even talking of a rebellion discarded is too dangerous to admit, other words are more dangerous still: you are not the first to think of escape." Even here, among the Rangers, Haldor's voice lowered to a whisper. Rebellion would bring punishments, but talk of escape could bring their hopes to naught.

The Chieftain nodded, but spoke more of it. "What happened?"

"We were questioned, each apart, but none of us would speak. Three of us they held for more than a week, and we knew not their fate all of that time. Of the three, only Belith is left."

"Who were the others?" The Chieftain sounded like one who could guess the answer, but still needed to ask.

"Marad and Hadron. Hadron we never saw again. Marad was returned to us with Belith, but he would not speak of the manner of Hadron's death. The Orc flogged them before our eyes as a warning to us all ere they sent us to our work. I do not remember the commander's words or the sentence, but I remember the glee of the Orc. Its eyes gleamed, and it relished our pain as it wielded the whip.

"At work's end, we found them lying on the floor, senseless, just inside the door. If the healer had seen them, he had done little to help them heal. Rhíhul did what he could, but the orcs had used them ill." Haldor paused. It was still too short a tale, but he could not bear to speak more fully. Nor, he guessed, would the Chieftain bear to hear. "The power shifted fully to Faron then. We had no heart to stop him, and barely enough to secure food for ourselves.

"The decision was mine. Faron might be strong, but he fears us still; he will not risk provoking us, or back us into a corner, but I do not trust our strength to stand against him. He leaves us alone, and we him."

"And now you are but another group of tugs?" the Chieftain asked. His voice was low and tired.

"I hope not."

At the other end of the room, Belith had withdrawn into the shadows, leaving Durion alone with the meal. The fire burnt with little smoke, one small blessing the guards had not denied them; the wood was dry. They did not have to choose between cooking-fires and air.

Aragorn kept his eyes closed; it was still easier, despite the work-day. He could hear the men move around him, could smell the clean wood-smoke and the cooking of supper.

"We always sought to stay evil, Haldor, and never to be known or praised." Harsher words lurked in his throat, but Aragorn could not yet bring himself to speak them.

"Even in the Wild, we would protect ourselves at need," Haldor answered. "And this is not the Wild; we cannot disappear from sight. We lost our heart, Chieftain, and it should never have been me in this place."

There was a pause, and Aragorn could hear Haldor move. He opened his eyes to see Haldor kneel before him.

"Release me, Chieftain." Haldor's head was bowed and his hair hid his face. "I have angered you."

Aragorn looked at him, and at the Rangers in the room around. He saw their weariness and sorrow. He saw Belith hiding in a corner, curled up like a night-frightened child. But he also saw how soft the others moved around him. He saw Durion's young face smile as he stirred the pot. He saw Taddal's back, straight and proud, standing guard at the opening to the cave. He turned back to Haldor.

"Captain," he said, and there was no anger in his voice. "The men chose you, and I could not have chosen better."

Haldor lifted his head to look at Aragorn. "Chieftain," he said, "it should not be me. My brother, or your kinsman…"

“They are not here.”

Haldor bowed his head once, and lifted it to meet Aragorn's face once more. Aragorn sat up straighter. No longer leaning on the wall, he bent forward and grasped Haldor's shoulder.

"The Dúnedain do not give their trust lightly, nor in vain, Haldor."

"There was need," Haldor answered, "but no longer."

"I still have need," Aragorn said. "Sauron did not send me here on a whim, nor does he plan for me to die here, a forgotten hostage among forgotten slaves. I need a captain in whom I can trust."

Haldor bowed his head. "If that be your wish."

"It is."

Aragorn sat back. He did not close his eyes, though even the low light still pained his eyes, lest Haldor would think himself dismissed. The stone was cold and the floor hard, but he was too tired to squat. Haldor did not move.

"Haldor."

"Chieftain?"

"Do not kneel before me." Aragorn's voice was soft. "The enemy delight in seeing us upon our knees often enough. And you have not finished your tale."

Haldor shrugged. "There is little left to say." He moved to sit with his legs crossed. "After many days, Belith stirred, mute and broken, as if he never fully woke. He makes no sound, but Rhíhul could find no hurt to cause his silence."

"Not all hurts are of the body, or easily overcome." Aragorn spoke like unto one who knows. His hands fisted on his knees.

 _Breathe in, breathe out_.

Haldor had fallen silent, and when Aragorn opened his eyes, he met Haldor's, close and worried. Aragorn hid his eyes again, but Haldor did not move away.

“Chieftain, what has _he_ done to you?”

And was not this, too, what he needed a captain for?

“We feared for you,” Haldor said. “We feared for the manner of your death, or that the Enemy would have some worse plan for you.”

“He has.”

But speaking of it meant remembering. Meant speaking of what Aragorn would forget. And Haldor was right: Aragorn would not have chosen him. Not before. He would not have chosen Belith either, had there been choice.

 _Halbarad_ , he thought, _I have need of you._ But he could not wish his kinsman to life. There were no others; those, too, were dead.

"Finish your tale first. What of Marad?"

"He recovered," Haldor answered. "At least it seemed so, though his hands shook even at rest, and he walked with a limp. But he spoke, and while his eyes would flicker, he would meet ours. We kept our worry for Belith, though we tried to shield them both. But some hidden hurt haunted Marad, and in the end he sought the only escape left. Badhor was with him, yet the did not stay his brother."

Aragorn remembered Badhor's words; he did not press Haldor to speak further of Marad's end. For a time he sat, just listening to the sounds of the men. Soft whispers and softer feet.

"Chieftain, what is the Enemy's plan?"

Had Haldor learned from Halbarad? To never let Aragorn forget the question he did not wish to answer?

“Aragorn.” Aragorn did not open his eyes, but his voice was firm. "Use my name.” Haldor did not answer at once, and Aragorn opened his eyes to look at him. “I need someone to whom I am other than Chieftain.”

Haldor hesitated, as if he wanted to protest, but he was Dúnadan. He knew better. “Aragorn,” he said. He spoke slowly, as if the name was strange on his tongue, but he spoke it. “Aragorn. What have you not told?”

Aragorn smiled. The tension left his face for one moment before it returned. When he began to speak, his voice was low; it did not carry beyond the two of them.

“I was not put to torment much,” Aragorn began. “Not of the body.”

“Not _much_?”

Aragorn shoot him a look, and Haldor winched. “Chieftain, I am sorry, but… 'I was only tortured a little'? That is…”

Aragorn laughed. No more than a chuckle, but it was a laugh. “Haldor,” he said. “Perhaps it should not have been you, but you will do. You will do.” His chuckle died, and he turned away once more.

“You would find scars on my back, were you to look," he admitted, "but most of my torments did not leave scars. Most of my time I spent alone, in the dark.”

“This was the worse?” Haldor sounded relieved. Rangers could spend months alone in the wild, if need arose.

“It was bad enough.” Not like the wild. “But not all. And not the worse.”

And Haldor said nothing. He must have learned _that_ from Halbarad too; though Haldor often was tongue-tied, this silence was like Halbarad's: waiting until Aragorn was ready to speak. But the cell was dark, and Aragorn had no wish to remember. Not now. Not yet. Not when he was yet unused to company. Unused to not being alone. They sat, and neither spoke until Haldor could not bear the silence; Aragorn was more stubborn than he.

"Tell me of today," he asked. "If the worst can not be told, ease our fear and tell what that Orc-captain had in mind today. You seem unhurt?"

"And I am. He dared not touch me: the Commander was very clear. You need not fear for me."

"Where were you, then? You worked alone."

Aragorn smiled. It was a crooked smile, and not without scorn. "Captain Gorgol," Aragorn said, "thinks himself cunning. He cannot touch me without risking his skin, so instead he sought to punish me by other means."

"He is good at that," Haldor remarked. "Your words does not comfort me, Chieftain."

"This time he misjudged his prey, then," Aragorn replied. "He ordered me to clean out the cesspits."

"He had you shovelling out the waste?"

"Unpleasant, I grant, but I have had such duty before: let it not be said that the Dúnedain spoil their Chieftains."

He smiled, and Haldor smiled back, relieved that nothing worse had befallen. Unpleasant, indeed, but with less danger than most other work in the mines. He wondered if the orcs knew that the duty was more coveted than much other tasks: lighter work than digging stone, and the worker was given time to wash when the day was done. And the smell kept the guards at distance. He shook his head. The orc could not know.

Too caught in his own relief, Haldor did not notice when Aragorn's mood changed. Despite his will, darkness crept into his mind and memory. Aragorn shuddered, half to shake it off, but the darkness did not abate. It was not real: a word could dispel it, but though he knew, for a while the words did not come.

…

 _Darkness. Silence. No way to tell night from day_ , or count the hours passing. No way to know when food or water next will come. At times he laughs to think of it: this is the torments he feared? This is the best Sauron could think of to break him?

But it is.

When he begins to long for the guards to come, not for the food or water they would bring but for their meagre company, then he knows that the torment is well chosen. When he scrambles to the door to listen to the orcs pass by, he know that it can break him.

And when fear pours from the wall of his prison, he can no longer think at all.

It is there, always. Whispering in his mind. In his ears. Dark against dark. Not to be seen – for how can one see in darkness so thick that even the eyes of the orcs can not pierce it? – but it is there. Always.

The floor is cold and damp beneath him, and he is numb, and he can feel the dark seep out of the walls. Thin tendrils of shadowed mist, seeking him; covering him with their nets. Even in the darkness he sees them, feels them stealing over him, sapping him of warmth, of strength. Of will. Covering him in rigid stone.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

But he cannot. He must move, cannot let the stone cover him and harden. And he cannot. Even as he fights and screams, only muffled sounds – far too weak to be heard beyond the door – escape him, until, at last, he must rest. And he slips back into dreams.

Until he wakes. And cannot move.

The ground underneath him is cold. Hard stone and chains; not even earth. No light. And behind the door, the shadows wait. No use rising. No use moving. But he moves nonetheless, to ease the ache in his bones.

Food and water is pushed into the cell through a hatch. How he does not know, but even when the hatch opens, no light can be seen. He moves as much as the chains allow, and tries not to think. Not even of that which has given him comfort before.

Then thought itself leaves him. Words leave him, and there is only the cold stone and his body. Breathing and thirst.

Those are the times he is at peace.

The stone cold and hard, comforting and solid under him. No fear of falling, not here. He is already fallen and can fall no further than the hard stone at the centre of the world.

And he closes his eyes against the dark, and his mind against the shadowed whispers and the fear. There, safe for a while behind the lids of his eyes, he sees light, and sun, and green grass growing, and hears the laughter of clear voices. The whispers drown and dwindle into a distant hiss.

…

 Aragorn gathered his courage, and at last he spoke:

"The palantir did not prepare me."

"To clean out the waste-pits?"

"What?"

The darkness broke. There was a moment of silence. Haldor's ears had not quite caught up with his mouth before Aragorn broke it, and laughed. At first Haldor did not recognise the sound, a stranger to his ears. And Aragorn's mouth was out of practice. But that changed quickly, and Haldor heard mirth — true, blessed mirth — in his Chieftain's voice.

"Do not ever say your words are wrong, Haldor."

Aragorn was still underground, far from the sun, but he could feel his heart lighten and the Shadow receding from his mind.

Haldor did not understand the source of his Chieftain's mirth, but he took heart in it. For days and weeks thereafter, Aragorn's eyes would sparkle with a teasing mirth that baffled both Haldor and the other captives. The guards noticed it as well, and the orc-captain… the orc-captain would see no light in the eyes of his slaves.

But he could not quell it.

At first Gorgol sought to drive the mirth from him with all the worst tasks he could think of: cleaning out the chess-pits and the orcs' dens; dragging ore from the deepest shafts, digging ore in the deepest shafts. Working double shifts so that Aragorn would stumble in weariness, his strength spent at the end of his day. But Aragorn's eyes kept mocking him. 'Do your worst,' they said. 'You cannot match what I have already lived.'

When Gorgol saw that neither hard nor humiliating work would break that mirth, he sought other ways. Always finding fault in the King's work, always trying to find some slip which he could punish.

But the mark on Aragorn's chest protected him, and Gorgol dared not subject the King to the wanton cruelty he might otherwise have used. If indeed fear it was, and not a part of the Enemy's plans. But whether by order or not, Captain Gorgol found other means with which to thwart the King.

…

Food became scarce. Haldor had tried to hide from the Chieftain how little they had, and the Chieftain was at first too worn to notice, but he could not make food from air. And no new rations came. The first day late, Haldor did not worry too much; he always rationed the food, for they could never know to the day when they would be given more. Still, with one more mouth to feed, they were running low. Another day passed, and another, and still nothing. Even Faron had little.

Their cell continued to be fetched late for their morning meal. The Rangers had known hunger before, but they had lived at the edge since their capture. Aragorn said nothing, but he insisted on measuring out the food.

Tempers ran higher than usual in the cave, and the pride that had been sensed when Aragorn arrived, slowly dwindled as the hunger grew. Faron sent his men to take what food that were left, but few — other than the Rangers — had any. Thalion gave up his small piece of bread without a fight: they all had learned that whatever the hunger, the hurts were not worth it in the end. No work, no meal.

Faron's men did not try to take from the Rangers, but his anger grew, and so did the fear and desperation of his men. And the Orc knew well how to use anger and fear.

Haldor kept a close eye on his Chieftain, closer than most, but he was not the only one to notice when Aragorn returned from his work favouring his left side. That evening, Thalion stopped Haldor on his way to through the cell.

"What ails the King?"

"I do not know," Haldor answered. "I have not yet spoken with him; I was about to when you stopped me."

They were close to the Rangers' cave. They could both see into it, to the corner where Aragorn knelt by Angbor. The orcs had used him for their sport two nights ago, and the Chieftain had tried – and tried still – to save him the use of his hand. The Rangers stood close, helping when ordered.

“Do not try to keep him for yourself.” Thalion echoed his words from the first day. “The only way you can keep the anger at bay, is …”

“Anger?” Haldor interrupted. “You think we do it out of anger?”

“You misunderstand. I do not talk of your anger; I talk of the anger against _him_. The anger of those that would rather have stayed at their homes, defending their women. The anger of those that only see a foolish attack that was doomed to fail. The anger of those who can find no other to blame for their captivity and pain. Or, at least, no other whom they can even hope to make pay for it. I am talking about the anger of other slaves. Anger that will turn into hate. And then even the Rangers cannot keep the King safe.”

Haldor did not know what to say. “You speak of anger and hate, and wish us not to do our best to keep him safe?”

“He is not safe, and unless we learn to know him, like you do, then the anger will grow unchecked.” Thalion paused. In the corner, Aragorn was speaking softly to the wounded man, and Thalion nodded towards him. “ _That_ is what won Elfstone the heart of Minas Tirith. What little I have been allowed to see of him, tells me that he is great. Greater than any man who now lives. But had I not been allowed to see, to talk with him and know him just a little, I might have hated him instead: at his word we marched to our doom.

“Keep your fellow slaves from him, and they will not see his greatness. If you deny hope to those that have lost all, they will repay in hate. Already it is spreading. And hunger quickens hate, as well you know.”

Haldor spat. "The Orc —"

“Captain Gorgol is too clever to defy his Lord. Ask the King who bruised him so he favours his left side. It will not be the captain, though it may well have been on his incitement.”

Haldor did not answer, but he turned to seek answers from his Chieftain.

“I am not your enemy,” Thalion called after him. “Nor his.”

Haldor acknowledged his words with a nod, but he did not turn. He reached the Chieftain in time to hear him say:

"I may have to reset some of the bones, but I cannot tell before the swelling is down. I fear the little finger may never heal, though it should, in time, cease to hurt. But you should not yet work. Haldor will talk with the guard on duty."

"You will not?" Angbor spoke quietly. His breath was shallow and he did not move.

"I fear _my_ plea will not serve you."

Aragorn made to rise, but Haldor was there. He saw the hesitation — the expectance of pain — and stopped him. Aragorn glared.

"Do not ask."

"Thalion wished to know."

"And you have no such desire?" Aragorn huffed, and winced at the movement. Haldor said nothing, but held out his hand. Aragorn accepted his offer.

The Chieftain was lighter than Haldor remembered, lighter than he had expected even though he had seen his sunken face each day. The mirth had hidden it.

"Thalion fears we endanger you," he said. Quickly, before the Chieftain could wave him off. And before he said words he would regret.

The news made Aragorn pause. "Fetch him," he ordered Durion. "And any he wishes to bring; no more than two or three. Haldor, Badhor, Taddal: with me. Angbor needs to rest."

The corner was hidden from view for the rest of the cave. Since the day Aragorn arrived, both he and his men preferred he sleep there, and without Aragorn saying so, or the Rangers asking, it became their custom to keep it for him. Unless invited, none would go near.

Aragorn winced more openly when he sat down. Haldor moved closer, but Aragorn waved him off.

“Nothing is broken,” he said. “There is nothing you can treat. We will wait for Thalion.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The Dúnedain did their best to make sure none overheard them, speaking among themselves to mask any words. Haldor would have preferred thicker walls.

Thalion brought one man, a Rider who had fought in foot in the last battle. He had been separated from his éored before the last, desperate charge.

“This is Hengest, son of Folcred,” Thalion said. “He served in King Théoden's household, but when his horse was slain on Pelennor, he would not accept a new one.”

“I never was the horseman of my father,” Hengest said. “I would not trust an unknown horse in battle, or ask it to trust a rider it did not know.”

“Your father, was he the Rittmaster of Thengel King?” Aragorn asked.

Hengest startled. He looked at Aragorn as for the first time. “How did you know?”

“Your father was a fine horseman; he would not have asked a horse to trust an unknown rider in battle, could he help it.” Aragorn studied Hengest for a while. “You are young to be his son.”

“He married late.” Hengest did not elaborate, and Aragorn did not ask. He turned to Thalion.

“Haldor tells me you have concerns?”

“I do, sire,” Thalion answered. “About the King's health.”

“And I trust your concerns can be availed?”

Thalion paused. The cell filled with the soft breaths of sleeping men, the whispers of the Dúnedain, and the clinking of chains whenever one of them moved.

“My King must decide,” Thalion said. “But I see and hear what the Rangers cannot. They try to keep the King to themselves.”

“It is our task to keep him safe,” Haldor broke in. “Our duty, through generations.”

Aragorn silenced him. “Peace, Haldor. We will hear Thalion's words, and judge their merit after.” He nodded to Thalion. “Continue.”

“I do not claim the same love as the King's northern kin, but some claim I still have, lord.” Thalion paused, and shuddered as if cold. His mask of cultured manners slipped. “You raised the sign of Elendil, lord, and it was the name of the Elfstone that led us to the Black Gate. It was that name our heralds proclaimed.”

“I have not forgotten,” Aragorn said. Haldor winced to hear the darkness in his voice, but Thalion spoke on.

“Yes, my King, but it seems your Rangers has: You claimed us, which gives us claim in return.”

Aragorn held him with his eyes. Long they sat unspeaking, and none dared interfere. Thalion flinched, but before he averted his eyes Aragorn released him.

“I accept your claim.”

It was right. Haldor knew that it was so; that this was as it should be. And yet… And yet… Aragorn touched his arm and stayed his thought.

“Tell me, Thalion,” the Chieftain said. “What danger can you see which we may avert?”

“I fear the danger has already shown itself, my lord. You are hurt.” He did not ask, nor did Aragorn deny.

“An …accident… during work. It is a peril we cannot avoid.”

“Gorgol is too cunning to risk his own neck,” Thalion countered. “The guards did not cause your …accident.”

Aragorn's face darkened. “You think me careless?”

“There is anger, and resentment among the prisoners. Before you came, sire, that anger had no aim, no target for release, but now? There are those whose anger turns to you. They blame you for their fate and loss.”

“This I cannot change, Thalion.” Aragorn sighed. There was no mirth in him now, and his face was of a man, weary of hate and sorrow, who knows there is no rest in sight. Haldor could not recall ever seeing him thus.

“Elessar King,” Hengest broke in. “May I speak?”

Aragorn nodded, and Hengest began to speak. He spoke the words strangely and with a tone unlike the men of the North, or South. And when Hengest hesitated and searched for words, Haldor noted it, as he had not before.

“Elessar King," Hengest began. "When you came here, I was angry. Angry, as I had been since the day I woke in chains and knew that we had lost: when I learned your name, my anger ran a-fresh. No longer wasted wrath against a world gone wrong: my anger had an aim. Éomer King I followed, but he fought on your word, for friendship's sake. And you led us to ruin, far from home and hearth.

“When the Shadow overtakes them, my wife and daughter will face it alone. I cannot be with them, and I found my son's horse on the battlefield.”

He paused, but Aragorn said nothing, and when Hengest asked if the king had nothing to say, he answered:

“What can I? It is all true.”

His voice was tired. Haldor felt the cold creep out of the walls and into his body at the sound. Hengest gaped at Aragorn's answer.

“You… you knew?”

“We all knew our danger!” Haldor could no longer keep his tongue. “If you did not, the fault is on your king.”

“Haldor.”

His name, spoken softly by his Chieftain, stopped him, and he relented. The talk around them dropped to a whisper, barely there. The Dúnedain listened as closely as would any spy. They were tense, no more comfortable with letting a stranger near their Chieftain than Haldor. And they, too, wished to hear Aragorn's answer.

“Your father made me angry often,” Aragorn said. If Hengest were surprised to have his father spoken of again, he did not show it. “Folcred thought me no more than a youth of Gondor wanting to impress the girls, and – having failed to join the Citadel Guard – had come to try his luck in Rohan. He was right about my youth, but there was only one woman I have ever wished to impress.”

The Dúnedain fell silent around them. Hengest, having not their knowledge, asked:

“Your wife?”

“It was my hope, once. But her father had conditions yet to be met. I do not know if the Mark has fallen; Éomer king escaped the Gate, and later from Minas Tirith before it fell, and no further news have I heard of him. But the House of _her_ father, where I lived my childhood days, is in the North. It fell before midsummer.

“I could not be there when Rivendell fell.”

“Do you know her fate?”

None of them had dared ask, but this Rider did. With no regrets in his voice, but with no anger either. Aragorn laughed, bitter and short.

“The Enemy lies, when it suits his plans,” he answered. “I have not seen her, but Sauron holds her father.”

…

 _He lies curled_ _up_ _by the door when it finally —_ finally! _— opens._ The door hits him, and he scrambles away until his back is against the wall. He can hear, but not yet see, someone enter his cell; the light is too bright, and his eyes water. But he can feel him – it? – standing before him. A shape, blurry to eyes long accustomed to the dark, bends over him, and he feels the warmth of a body. The touch of a hand on his cheek. He flinches.

— Estel.

He freezes, not knowing whether to back away from the touch, or press closer.

— Estel.

A voice from his childhood years, soothing a scratched knee, a runny nose, or a night-time fear.

— Estel.

And at the third speaking of that name, the tension in his body breaks. He weeps and grips the hand. Moves it from his face and holds it.

— Estel is dead. His voice is steady, belying his tears. But I would that your art could restore him.

Gentle fingers brushes the tears away, but the words that follow bring no comfort.

— I am your enemy now, Estel. Do you understand? The shadow between us have swallowed me, but you it has not yet mastered.

…

The Rangers stopped him to ask questions they should already have know, had he had the heart to speak before. He briefly told them what he had learned: that Gandalf bore the last of the Elven Rings, and that the wizard, as the only Guardian unbent, defied Sauron still.

"If Lord Elrond told me true, Gandalf is beyond speech and deed, locked in his fight against the Enemy."

"Can we trust Lord Elrond's word?" It had to be asked, though none of the Rangers wished to think it.

"In this, I trust them," Aragorn said. "Or choose to: Why would Sauron order a lie that would give me hope?"

…

 _Elrond laughs._ A soft chuckle, more felt than heard. Still, in the darkness of Mordor the sound is clear; even the stones listen and sigh. It eases Aragorn's mind and he smiles. A tired ghost of a smile, but more true than any he has smiled since his capture. In this sound he hears truth.

Lord Elrond frees one of his hands. He presses a water-skin into it and helps Aragorn lift it to his lips. He drinks, his body greedy for the water, cool and soothing. Lord Elrond holds on to the skin, easing his pace.

— Not too quick, he says. Do not fear: you can drink your fill.

Aragorn pushes the water-skin away. Now _he_ laughs, but his laugh is bitter, as bitter as the comfort Lord Elrond offered. Sauron is a clever tormentor, and Aragorn says so.

Lord Elrond flinches at the name. The walls of the cell grow tense and cold and full of fear.

— Shh, Estel! Do not incur His anger.

Aragorn drinks another mouthful of water. Swallows it down, and with it all that clenched at his throat.

— What will his anger do, he asks, that his calm calculation will not do the same?

Lord Elrond does not answer. He lifts again the skin to Aragorn's lips, forcing him to drink or let the water spill. Aragorn can feel Lord Elrond's hands shake. His face is drawn, and when the water-skin lowers, Aragorn asks once more:

— What worse can he do?

— Do not ask me.

Aragorn recognises the voice, and the pain behind Elrond's eyes, and fear returns. Dead, numb fear that bleeds the strength from the body and the will from the mind.

— No, he whispers. No, the Mouth lied… he must have… she… . But he cannot say her name, nor voice his fear.

The water-skin drops from Elrond's hands. Water spills down Aragorn's shirt, into his lap, and he does not move, does not try to catch the skin or stop the water from spilling. It is Elrond who recovers to pick it up again. A little water is left, but Elrond does not offer it.

— I knew He would come for me, Elrond says. When… I knew it was too late for me; He knew me. I could not hide any more. So I sent all who would flee, as many as could be spared, to the Havens. We who stayed, hoped to be able to keep His eye fixed on us, that those who fled might escape, and reach the Havens before it was too late. Arwen…. He falters, and winces as if in pain. But then he shudders, once, and a mask covers his face, and when he continues, Lord Elrond's voice is distant and dead.

— I sent my daughter to the Havens, but the Lord's forces were swift and His plans well-made. The Havens burned before she could reach it, and those fleeing taken or slain. My daughter's escort are all dead.

— And Arwen…? Aragorn can ask no clearer.

— Taken and brought here. I …, and the mask breaks, and Aragorn knows Elrond's voice once more.

— I have not been allowed to see her.

He will not be sick. Not this time. Not…

…

"You knew her danger," Hengest said. "And still led us to a battle without hope."

"Hiding would not have saved us!" It was the first time Aragorn raised his voice, sharp and stern. A brief flash of the King, then Aragorn closed his eyes, and sighed.

"The only hope was to keep Sauron's eye on us." He opened his eyes and looked at Hengest. "This is why the heralds proclaimed the name of King Elessar: to make the Enemy blind to all else. Our hope never was in strength of arms, nor in armies, but in the destruction of the One Ring. We sent it to the fires to be destroyed, and knew the Bearer had reached Ithilien and had not been caught when the dark began to spread. We hoped to be bait to the Eye, so that the Ring would pass unnoticed. The name of Heir of Isildur, Imrahil deemed, would be the stronger bait. I knew it was true." Briefly he spoke of the Ring, its peril and its dangers, and of its bearer.

"Our hope almost was fulfilled," he ended his take. "The Ringbearer reached Mount Doom as we did battle."

"What happened?" Hengest asked. "If this hoblyta reached the fire of the Mountain, what happened that we lost?"

"His strength ran out."

Aragorn did not want to say more, but Hengest waited, and Thalion, and all his men. Haldor looked at him, and if it had been Halbarad, Aragorn knew he later would have to tell the tale in full. It could wait.

"I would not have made it half as far," was all he said. "And it is my guess, and his, that he would have been found sooner, had we hid behind the walls of Minas Tirith."

"I did not know." Hengest spoke quietly.

"Few could."

"Did you?"

There was a silence.

"Ranger, did you? Did any of you know?"

Haldor realised Hengest talked to him. "No," he answered. "I did not know the plan in full. I had no need to, and therefore did not ask. Yet we had seen the Blade Reforged, and the heir of Elendil break the secret we had long guarded to keep him safe. We knew the stories of old, and the signs to look for. We knew what was said of Isildur's Bane.

"But we knew the danger, and so we did not even guess in our hearts. The Chieftain called, and we answered."

"And now?" Hengest asked.

Aragorn rose. He held out his hand rose Hengest with him. The Dúnedain all came to stand around them.

"Now, son of Eorl," Aragorn said, "is the time for courage without hope, and valour without renown.

" _Til bith se the his treowe gehealdeth, … ne sceal næfre his torn to rycene  
_ _beorn of his breostum acythan, … nemthe he ær tha bote cunne,  
_ _eorl mid elne gefremman_."

Hengest bowed. " _Thæs ofereode, … thisses swa mæg_ _._ " He looked up. "My grief is answered, and my wrath brought to naught. Éomer king judged you right."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on languages and names:
> 
> "Til bith se the his treowe gehealdeth (etc)”: OE from The Seafarer:  
> Good is he who keeps his faith, And a warrior must never speak  
> his grief of his breast too quickly, unless he already knows the remedy -  
> a hero must act with courage
> 
> Thæs ofereode, … thisses swa mæg: OE from Deor: That has passed so shall this
> 
> Hengest, son of Folcred: I’ve tied this character to another story of mine: “The Horse and the Rider”. It was written for a challenge on Teitho, and is at the moment only published there since I plan to do some rewriting of it. Knowledge of that story is not necessary for understanding this; it is only a piece of my own head-canon for Aragorn’s Thorongil-years in Rohan.
> 
> A/N: My thanks to the writers of The Garden of Ithilien and my beta JAUL for help in getting this chapter ready.
> 
> The writing (and revising) are going a little slow for me at the moment, but I hope to have the next chapter ready in a shorter time than it took for this. I don’t dare promise a date, though, but hope to get at least get back to my monthly schedule.
> 
> I hope the formatting and tense-change of the flashbacks work. At first I wrote the dialogue without any marking at all, because I wanted a more dreamlike quality, but changed to use the em-dash to mark the beginning of the speech to make it a bit clearer. I know the format might be un-known to some, but I hope the parts were clear even so.


	11. The Power Left

From the hand of Faramir, the Steward of Gondor:

_"My beloved,_

_I hope one day you might read my words, or, better yet, that we may speak, and have no need for written words. But since I cannot be with you, I will imagine that these letters will reach you, and that the Enemy will not find them. Yet I do not think he will glean anything from my words that he does not know: what_ I _think of his rule is not a secret to him, and my tidings all come to me from his agents._

_The Dark Lord's Mouth began his assault on Rohan one week after the King and my uncle were brought to the Shadow. While I still do not fully know what plans he has for Gondor, it has become clear to me that they are not the same as for Rohan. Perhaps it is because you, beloved, and your brother, the king, escaped him. In Gondor, there was little bloodshed after my surrender, but from what I have heard, the Mouth deals far harsher with your people. And is met with far more determined resistance. Rumours whispered in the alleys of Minas Tirith claim that just the sight of one Rider will have a whole company of the Enemy's soldiers frozen in fear. Some even say that the Mouth himself fears nothing but the eyes of the King Elessar, and the hoofbeats of the Mark._

_I have seen him avoid the eyes of Lord Aragorn. It gladdens my heart to think that you and King Éomer, your brother, cause him equal fear._

_Gladdens me and worries me in equal measure, for I have seen what his hate will do, and the Mouth hates none as much as those whom he fears. Had I prayers to offer, I would give them for your safety. But the King is taken into the Shadow, and we have none left to bear our prayers._

_Captain Nagid, who led Lord Aragorn and prince Imrahil to the Dark Tower, returned two months after he left but bore no tidings of them. None that have been shared with me. Though both were taken as hostages, to suffer no bodily hurt as long as the people of Gondor and Dol Amroth remain obedient to the Dark Lord's will, I dare not think of what torments they might endure; for the Enemy lies and deceives, and there are other torments than those of the body. And I know there will come a time when I must risk the King's health for the peoples'. Until then, I can but hope the Enemy will at least keep to the letter of his promise."_

…

"My lord."

Aragorn turned to Thalion. "Are you answered?"

"Yes, my lord," Thalion answered. He shifted his eyes to Hengest and nodded towards the doorway. Hengest nodded back, before he bowed to Aragorn and withdrew. Thalion waited until he was out of hearing before he continued. "And yet not. We still have not fully touched upon our problem."

Aragorn had watched the exchange in silence, but now he answered Thalion's words. "Yes, we have."

"If the King will forgive me: we have not. One man…"

"We understand the lesson," Taddal interrupted. "We are not simple."

"No," Haldor agreed, "we are not. And neither is Thalion. You have other purpose, knight of Dol Amroth, than to preserve the Chieftain's safety."

Aragorn had not turned from Thalion. He did not speak while his men spoke, but watched Thalion and noted how his eyes flickered from one Ranger to the next, though Thalion gave no other sign to the Rangers' words. Aragorn spoke:

"What further problem do you see?"

Thalion's eyes snapped back to the king. "I do not know what Haldor has told…"

"I have eyes and ears, Thalion," Aragorn answered. "And I did not lead some sheltered life — locked away from danger or power struggles— before I revealed myself."

"Then what has the King seen?" Thalion did not back down. His voice was held in respectful tones, but Aragorn did not trust it to be other than an act.

"The  _king_  has seen that the men are divided, made so, no doubt, by the intent of the guards. Or, rather, the commander. Captain Gorgol delights in the breaking of others, but Commander Apam…" Aragorn shook his head. "The commander is a different danger. Apam believes himself righteous." But he said no more about the commander. "I have seen that the strong prey on the weak, and the weak must try to ally themselves with the strongest group, or any group that will have them. The Orcs, in particular, encourage the brutal, though the commander, I guess, will not let it endanger the work, or too many of the captives' lives.

"The bond between my Rangers is strong, making them strong in turn. The guards distrust their loyalty to each other, which is not founded on fear. You, Thalion, see me as more than your liege-lord. Or, perhaps, less: you see in me a chance of safety."

Thalion shifted, uneasy. "The Rangers keep to themselves," he began.

"And that has been their failing," Aragorn replied. "Do not think I have not seen it. But you have not  _my_  safety in mind. Not as fully as you pretend: You wish me safe, so that I can make you so." He paused. "How see my eyes so far?"

"Better than I feared," Thalion answered. "And in part better than I like. But I do not think of my own safety alone. We are divided, but we need not be so. The King can do this, but I fear the Ranger can not."

"I am both," Aragorn said. "And both Ranger and King is needed here, I deem, though I must confess: the Ranger is more used to mistrust.

"Gorgol sees a threat, Thalion, where you see a hope. You wish me safe so that I can gather all the captives under my rule?" Aragorn snorted. "Whatever rule that might be."

Thalion did not answer. He held his ground, but he did not meet Aragorn's eyes.

"I am a prisoner, as you, Thalion. Do you think the Orc would leave me, should I fulfil his fear?"

Silence met his words. Thalion stared past him, his face blank and his stance straight.

"Speak!"

Aragorn held up his hand, but not fast enough to stop Haldor's outburst. The movement stretched sore ribs, and he winced. Thalion's eyes flickered to him and back. Aragorn sighed. His shoulders slumped, and he made to sit. Haldor was there, helping him settle on the ground.

"Speak, Thalion," Aragorn echoed Haldor's command. "But speak your mind to the point. Do not beat around the bush."

"My lord." Thalion did not hesitate. "You are already injured, and I ask again: by whose hand?"

"You have already guessed." Aragorn sounded tired. "Would you have me endanger those whose claim I have accepted? It will not help me win their hearts."

Thalion faltered at Aragorn's words. He stood a moment undecided. Haldor knelt by his Chieftain's side, and this time Aragorn did not bat his hands away. He let Haldor open his shirt, but did not let go of Thalion with his eyes.

An ugly bruise stretched from his hip up to the lower rib, but Haldor saw that Aragorn had spoken true before: little could be done to ease it. He closed the shirt without a word, his hands as soft as he could make them. Still Aragorn closed his eyes, though he made no sound.

"You should lie on the straw beside Angbor. It will be softer, if only a little."

Aragorn nodded, but when he opened his eyes, it was Thalion's he sought. Thalion knelt down before him.

"Winning their hearts will mean one danger less," he said.

"Yes, but several would take its place. And it will take more than a day to do so."

"Win those you can." Thalion took Aragorn's hand and held it with the palm turned up. "The Elfstone did not win our heart by the sword in his hand. He did it by bringing us back from the dead."

"You ask much."

"But nothing, I think, that you cannot do. However the guards may try to shift the balance, they cannot rule our hearts."

…

"You did not tell us about Lord Elrond."

They were all tired from the day's work, but Haldor was restless, and from the turning and tossing around him, few of the Rangers could yet sleep.

"You did not want to hear, Haldor." And there was still one whom Haldor did not name.

"Yes," Haldor protested. "No," he admitted.

Aragorn gave up finding a god position to sleep. He sat up and found the wall, leaned against it. Less pressure on the ribs. Beside him, Haldor moved as well, until they sat shoulder by shoulder. The troches that had been put out, but some light still leaked in from the cave beyond.

_I should be used to darkness_.

"Chieftain?"

Aragorn sighed. "Haldor, have you made up your mind?"

Light fell on the back wall. As if by purpose or design, Aragorn sat so that his chest caught the light, but his face was in shadow. The burn had almost healed, leaving the ugly mark of the Eye clear. Aragorn had given up trying to hide it after he had been forced to work bare-chested on his second day.

"No," Haldor answered. "I am not one to ask where a man does not wish to speak. But, Aragorn, you are our Chieftain still: I need to know, so that I can counsel well. Should we change? Should we follow Thalion's advice? What is it that the Dark Lord want of you, that he will keep you alive and give you back to us thus?"

"I do not know," Aragorn answered. "Apart from being held as hostage against Faramir. I have been told that I will bow and serve him, but I have not been told  _what_  he wishes me to do."

"And if you had been told?"

"My answer would have been the same. But Sauron does not need me to rule Gondor: he has servants enough that would take Faramir's place with joy. All I know, is that he wishes to break me, but for what purpose? That is hidden to me."

Haldor had no answer, but he did not lie down again to sleep.

_I should be used to darkness._  But he is not, though Haldor's presence is soothing, and the sound of living men around him is as well. Durion, who had been cleaning up after their evening meal, put out the last torch. Only at the doorway into their cave did they keep lights burning, and the light did not reach into the back wall. In the dark, memories lived. Memories Aragorn did not wish to revive. Beside him, Haldor was a shadow, but his eyes gleamed with reflected torchlight.

"Haldor?"

"Yes, Chieftain?"

He should not ask, but here, in the darkness, doubt grew in him and all his failings returned to him, as it had not when he spoke with Hengest. He had to know.

"Did you ever blame me, Haldor?" he asked.

"For what?" Haldor sounded like he did not understand why Aragorn would ask. "When did you ever choose wrong?"

_Ah, the dark._  "Once is enough," he answered. "I should have gone with them."

…

" _I write this by the light of the moon, beloved, and my hand might miss and smudge the page. Forgive me. My guards reported the light from my room, and now I dare not use the light of candles or lamps. One scroll only was found, and it had barley been begun, yet I will not risk more to be found. Ithil is strong and full tonight; he will have to suffice._

_Outside, the City is quiet but for the soldiers patrolling the streets. The night-wind is soft; just enough to gently ripple the curtains of my window. In the light of the moon, the fabric has turned to silver and glass, and I am reminded of my last patrol in fair Ithilien. The Window there rippled so with silver and pearls in the moonlight_   _on the night the Halflings were our guests. Seeing it, I wonder: had I known then what I know now, would I have let Frodo choose that way? Would I have let his guide, this creature with murder in his past and treachery in his heart, go with them?_

_My lady, in the silence of the night, I cannot but wonder if I could have done differently."_

…

I should be used to the dark by now. _But he is not. Not this dark, thick with fear, deeper than even the Mines of Moria. He is on the floor, leaning against the wall. He tries not to think. Tries not to see what was burned into his mind._

Footsteps interrupt him. Will they come for him again so soon? He has no time to gain his feet before the door opens. Something – someone – stumbles inside, thrown by the guards. Half the height of a Man. He falls on Aragorn, who catches him as best he can.

— The Great Lord is merciful, Nagid, the Haradric captain, says. Learn this.

The door shuts, and darkness returns. Aragorn feels a hand, small as if belonging to a child, touch his face, and he forces himself not to flinch.

— Wh… Who? My precious… they took It. Have you seen It?  _He_ …

_Elbereth!_  He holds the hobbit close.

— Frodo!

— A… Aragorn?

At first, he finds no words to speak. He holds him. Frodo is silent too. He is shaking, but Aragorn cannot bring himself to ask. Not yet. It is Frodo who breaks the silence, and when he speaks, his words ring with chilling clarity.

— I am sorry, he says. He makes to speak again, but Aragorn interrupts.

— I should have gone with you.

He can feel Frodo shake his head.

— I don't think it would have changed much, Frodo says. Except, perhaps, getting us caught sooner.

Aragorn wants to deny it.

— And you never meant to come all the way with us, Frodo continues. You meant to go with Boromir to Minas Tirith from the start. I knew that. It was I that failed.

— At the Gate, Aragorn says, the Mouth showed us your mithril-shirt. I… I might have kept you free a little longer, long enough that you might have reached the Fire.

— No.

Frodo pushes himself away from Aragorn and sits up beside him. Their shoulders touch, but Aragorn does not try to draw Frodo closer. With halting words, Frodo explains.

— I had time: I reached the Fire. The shirt was lost when we entered the land, but Sam rescued me then. Sam… Sam helped me, all the way to the last stretch. I stood there. The Fire, it burned so hot. So very hot. I could not do it. I could not destroy It. So beautiful… so precious… Burning, already burning. So alone… ashes… dust… so dry, so hot. Burning, always burning. I could not… So I took It, and He saw me. The Eye. I should have destroyed It then, but I had lost my mind. I thought… No, I did not think, and…

— By the time I came to my senses, it was too late. He had come.

Frodo shudders.

— Poor Gollum, he says. I thought I understood him before, but I was wrong. On His hand… to see It… never to have It again…. He stops, unable to go on.

Aragorn sits in silence, waiting. He wants to ask, wants to know what that creature did, but Frodo does not speak and Aragorn lifts one, shackled hand. He draws Frodo back into an embrace.

— And Sam? he asks. He can feel Frodo shaking, but he will not let him go. Not this time. He opens his mouth to speak, but hears Frodo's voice, and keeps silent.

— Brave Sam. Brave, right to the end. He kept Gollum away, there at the slope, when I could do little but crawl the last stretch. Frodo pauses. I think he killed him.

Frodo is not the only one shaking. Aragorn's voice is hoarse and rough.

— Sam?

— Gollum would have come back. Even though I ordered him not to, he would not have been able to stay away. It…, he falls silent again. Aragorn waits.

— Sam was very brave, Frodo repeats. He… even when  _He_  came…. Another silence stretches out between them.

— It is better. Like this: it's better.

The cell is dark and damp and cold. Aragorn cannot tell whether Frodo is crying or not, but tears fall down his own face.

— I miss him.

And Aragorn can hear the tears in Frodo's voice. This time he can hear them.

— I should not, Frodo continues. I should not wish he was with me now. Not here. But…

— Shh.

He clasps Frodo close. Holds him and waits until he calms.

— I should have gone with you, he says again.

— No, Frodo answers. Again. We found it, we reached the Fire, and I… I failed. You could not have changed it.

Aragorn shakes his head.

— I should have gone with you, he says. I should have come.

How long they are left together, Aragorn does not know. He only knows that they come too soon. Too soon for Frodo. Too soon for himself. They pluck the Ringbearer from his arms and carry him away. Back to Sauron. And Aragorn cannot stop them.

…

"I should have gone with them," Aragorn repeated. "After Gandalf fell in Moria I should not have abandoned the Ringbearer."

"Did not the hobbit say that you could not have changed the outcome?"

And that was Haldor: awkward silences or clumsy words. It cheered Aragorn better than he would have thought. But it did not make his words comforting. Or true in Aragorn's ears.

"What good would you have done had you been with them?" Haldor spoke with no sense of what his words wrought. "We would not have found you, had you gone with them. The siege of Minas Tirith would have been lost, and the Enemy would not have kept his eyes so long on us, had you not been with us."

"I should have been with them. If I had…"

"You would be dead!"

Aragorn had not noticed the low murmur until it stopped. Haldor did not seem to even notice that it had, that not only their cave was quiet; the cave beyond had fallen silent, too.. He went on speaking, despite the silence, and the other Rangers watching.

"You would have been dead, Chieftain. When they took you away, outside the Gates, we feared we would not even see your corpse. When I heard Taddal call your name, I feared, but above the fear, I felt joy: you had been returned to us alive. The stars shone again, here where no stars can be seen."

Aragorn said nothing. Haldor seldom spoke, not like this. Not when sober. And he seldom spoke with many people listening. Now he saw not the Rangers watching them, not the eyes beyond their cave. Aragorn saw them. A part of him wondered if he should wait until Haldor took notice. He caught Taddal's eye.

Taddal turned, and the Rangers with him, and the murmur rose again. Haldor did not notice.

"If you had gone with the Ringbearer… If you… We would have nothing left. No light. No pride. Nothing."

"You would probably not have been here." Aragorn broke his silence. "Had you not found me in Rohan, you would not have been at the Gate. You would have been free, and Halbarad might have lived."

"We still would have had no light."

…

_"Our crops are failing._

_Spring was dark with little growth. When the darkness and the clouds of Mordor covered us, we had neither sun nor rain and the seeds could not grow beyond their first, pale sprout. Now the rains have not stopped since Midsummer, turning the soil to deep mud and drowning what tender plant survived. The Haradrim soldiers marvelled at first, but now they curse the dampness, which seep into every crack and chills our very bones._

_The westernmost fiefs, around Pinnath Gelin and on the plains between the rivers Lefnui and Morthond, have fared a little better, but their grain, I fear, will not be enough to feed the whole of Gondor. But the fishermen say that the schools are larger than in years, something Nagid has been quick to proclaim to be due to the generosity of the Dark Lord. Dol Amroth is, so far, the only part of Gondor to be wholly ruled by the Enemy's men._

_Even so, I fear the fisherfolk will not be given much time to enjoy their good fortune. Beloved, today a tax on fish was handed me, one I have little hope of delaying for long. Even Orcs cannot march on an empty stomach."_

…

"We should share what little we have left," Aragorn said the next morning.

"It will do no good and we have nothing to spare, Chieftain; you know as well as I." Haldor hoped the Chieftain would not press. "Every day, you grow thinner, and we can ill afford for you to lose your strength."

"You are thinner than I, Haldor," Aragorn answered. "As are all the others."

But the Chieftain said no more, and Haldor counted it a victory. He should have known better.

That night the Rangers ate their last food. Whether Faron had any left, they did not know, but he did not look happy the next day when the guards fetched them. The gruel was thinner than they ever remembered it to be.

Aragorn was returned to the cave with the rest of the Rangers at evening. It had happened before, but not often. Haldor counted it lucky, Aragorn did not. As soon as the door to their prison opened, Haldor knew his Chieftain was right.

The cave was silent and empty of life. Right inside the door lay a small heap of food.

"Why have they brought us back before the others?" Taddal wondered. "And with the food already here?"

"Do not question our luck," Badhor said. "We need risk no injury; it is a blessing."

"This is not for our benefit." Haldor drew his hands through his hair. The Chieftain was with them, but Haldor was captain still; the days where he could leave the worry to others, were long gone.

"Haldor is right," Aragorn said, " _benefit_  is not the right word. Nor is blessing. Is anything else unusual?"

"There is less," Taddal answered. "Our food has been cut, though we have one more mouth."

" _That_ ," Aragorn said, "is for  _my_  benefit." He stood silent in thought. "If we take control, and divide it equally among all the men..."

"Faron would take from those who cannot defend themselves," Haldor interrupted. "We are not strong enough, Chieftain, even with you returned to us, to challenge Faron. We need more support than Thalion can provide. Faron fears us, for he has not truly tested our strength — neither of us has been willing to risk a fight we might lose — but should he decide it is in his interest to test our strength…"

"Our loss is certain?"

"Not certain," Haldor admitted, "but likely."

Aragorn nodded. "Very well. Then take only a minimum of what is needed. How long must it last?"

"About two weeks," Haldor answered. "But sometimes longer. It has been more than twenty days since the last load."

"Minimum shares for nine for two weeks, then," the Chieftain ordered. "It should leave more for the rest."

"We are ten, not nine, Chieftain."

"Nine, Haldor. Do not question me on this."

Aragorn's voice was stern, and his eyes flashed. Of the Rangers, only Halbarad might have challenged him when he was in this mood. Haldor bowed his head.

"Nine, then, Chieftain. We will make it stretch for ten."

Aragorn did not answer.

…

Faron was not happy to see that the food had already arrived, and the Rangers given first pick. They usually  _did_  have first pick, but through a never spoken agreement, to be silently negotiated anew each time. Not by the guards' interference. The guards had always given the advantage to Faron in the past, and he could see his power slipping through his grasp.

He sent his men to fetch Thalion: someone would have to suffer his displeasure, and bring words to the Rangers.

"There is less food." Faron did not ask. Thalion stood silently before him. "And those friends of yours had time alone with the rations."

"They do not confide in me," Thalion answered. "Nor have I access to their supplies. Haldor has never taken more than his share before."

"Ah, but Haldor no longer commands the Rangers, now does he? And the Elfstone seems taken with you. Does he not reward your flatterings?"

"The  _King_ ," Thalion stressed the word, "shows me no special favour. And from what I have seen, he is less likely to order his men to take a larger share than even Belith was."

"The  _King_." Faron spat. "He's just a ragged northman, like the rest of them, taking on airs. No. It is his fault that there is less food: he has taken it for himself and his men, hasn't he?"

"I would not know," Thalion answered. "But I do not believe it."

"Kings and lords do not hunger if they can help it," Faron answered. "Those in power never do."

_You would know._  Thalion did not voice his thought. Faron knew of his low opinion, but it would do no good to remind him.

"Haldor and I, we had an understanding," Faron spoke on, "but this king, him I do not trust. And it is clear that Haldor will not disobey him, now that his lord is here. Haldor is much too happy following."

"He is your king as well, Faron." Enough of Thalion's distain slipped into his voice to spark anger in Faron's.

"There are no kings, or lords, or loyalties, here, Thalion!" He did not shout. Not quite. "You're a fool to think so, and you always will be. Are you hoping this  _king_  of yours will take you in? Haldor won't let you in without a fight, and he will not let you near enough to his precious Chieftain for you to convince  _him_  otherwise."

"And still you wish for me to be your errand-boy." In the flickering torchlight, the rough stone wall, with its nocks and knobs, gave more expression than did Thalion's face.

Faron grinned. "It would be better for you if you obey  _me_. You think this king will change anything? You think my boys will leave  _me_  for  _him_? You think the power will shift?  _I_  have Captain Gorgol's favour, and I doubt the Orc will want to deal with the Elfstone. Unless to beat him. I'm surprised he has not blacked any more eyes of your  _king_  yet."

"Then what do you fear?"

"There is less food than it should be, and the Rangers were here before the rest of us. There is no reason we should have been given less, and so they must have taken more. Or they are the reason our rations have been cut: either way, I want you to let them know my patience grows thin."

"And if they will not speak with me? They can see us talking: if they do not wish you to know, they will not tell me."

"For your sake, they should. I might not want to test their resolve if I can avoid it: with you I have no such concerns. Those few friends you have gathered will not stand against my men. And if your standing is that low with the brigand as you say, he will not lend his aid."

"And you wonder why I will not join you."

Faron smiled. In the flickering light, his mouth was a dark hole and his eyes darker still. "I do not wonder at all," he said. "I take pleasure in making you run my errands all the same."

Thalion did not answer Faron's jibe. He was alone, on Faron's turf. "Was that all?" he asked. "If not, then excuse me: it seems I have an errand to run."

"That you have, O knight of Dol Amroth." The bow Faron gave was full of mockery. Thalion did not return it, but turned and left. Faron's men parted to let him pass.

"Follow him, but not so close that the Rangers see you."

Faron did not even care that Thalion was still within earshot.

"They'll see us before we leave this corner."

Neither did his men, but at least some of them could think.

"They have seen us already." Thalion did not turn to speak. He had already told Faron as much. "They might speak to me if you stay out of hearing-distance, though."

Thalion could feel Faron's eyes on him, and his anger, but he was outside Faron's corner now. Some safety could be had. Or he could fool himself to think so. He could hear footsteps behind him, but they did not run. Or come close enough to drag him back.

"Fanon must want to hear what the King will tell me," Thalion muttered to himself. "The question is, will he believe the truth?"  _And will I hear it?_  his thoughts added. But that thought was too dangerous to be muttered.

…

Haldor had sat a guard outside their cave again. He still had questions, and he guessed Aragorn did too, but for some reason the Chieftain waited, silent, despite Haldor's efforts, as if he knew something Haldor did not. As if he waited for others to join them.

He was of Luthien's blood, and Haldor guessed some foresight might have been with him even here: Thalion drew near again, and he came from Faron's corner. The guards let him in at Aragorn's gesture. It was as if he was the one the Chieftain had been waiting for, and Haldor wondered if it indeed was foresight, or if Aragorn had some other source of information.

"Sit," Aragorn ordered. "We have much to speak of, and I am guessing you have questions of your own as well. Not just Faron's."

"You saw him calling on me," Thalion said.

"I did not need to. Sauron has some plan for me; the commander acts on His order."

"You think highly of our import," Thalion said. "Why would the Enemy care for the running of a mine?"

"He does not," Aragorn answered. "But though he has tried to impress upon me of what little concern I am to him, his actions belie it. He marked me. He has given instructions to Apam about my …treatment… here. He might not care about the running of the mine as long as ore is dug, but what happens to me… Sauron means to break me, and bend me to his will."

"And how does Faron figure in his plans? Or I? Do you think we obey  _his_  orders?"

"I doubt he even knows your names. But he does not need to, or command your obedience. He only has to know Men and our weaknesses.

"Today the Dúnedain and I were brought back from work early, and food was waiting in the cell when we arrived. A smaller share, I have been told, than before, though one more mouth has been added. I need no foresight to guess Faron's reaction, and he has used you as a go-between before."

"And you have not taken more than your share?"

Haldor found the question rude: when had the Rangers ever taken more than their bare need, or even that? But the Chieftain did not seem to share his anger.

"No," Aragorn answered, and his voice was calm. "Less food was given. My guess is that the commander — and ultimately Sauron — ordered it so that suspicion would be put on me, and my Rangers, and if possible also breed resentment toward me. I ordered Haldor to take minimum shares for nine. If all the other men wish for me to divide the food among you, I will oversee it, but — for now — I must think of my men. I will order no man unwilling."

"You are ten," Thalion said. "I do not think Faron will believe you took less than your share."

"Because of me, there is less food," Aragorn answered. "I would have said 'too little', but I know it was not sufficient even before. Apam, and Sauron, watch my move, and Gorgol is but waiting for a chance to make my life harder. They will expect me to take the food for myself; they know but the weaknesses of Men. I will not play their game, but I cannot let my Rangers starve." He nodded towards Faron's corner. "You can tell Faron this: I will not let my men starve."

"And who are your men, Lord Elessar?"

"You need ask?"

Aragorn held Thalion's eyes. Thalion looked away first.

"No, my lord." He bowed and left. Haldor looked after him, and waited until he was out of hearing.

"Aragorn," he said. "You know Faron will not believe him."

"Do you?"

The question was, perhaps, not unfounded. Haldor resented it the same.

"You are our Chieftain. The Dúnedain do not doubt their own."

"There might come a time when you will. A time when you should." The last was but a breath; only Haldor was close enough to hear the words. Aragorn was not looking at any of them. He followed Thalion with his eyes, but Haldor was not sure it was him the Chieftain saw.

"What price will he have to pay?"

"Thalion?" Haldor hesitated. "Can you not guess?"

"I do not know what standing Thalion has with Faron: though they resent each other, he lets Thalion run his errands. You say Thalion does not follow Faron."

"He does not."

"Yet you do not trust him."

"I do not, and neither should you, Chieftain." Haldor said no more. In the darkest corner, Aragorn caught movement; Belith sat there, rocking slowly. His lips would move, but no sound would escape them.

_I am your enemy, now, Estel._

Not risk that hurt again — he could not blame Haldor.

"I will take care," he said, "but I do not read any betrayal in Thalion's face, nor too much fear. Those I have claimed, I will not abandon."

Haldor said nothing, but he moved as if he could not find a good spot to sit. The stone was hard, but Haldor should have been used to it. Aragorn laid his hand on Haldor's knee.

"Yours was the first claim, and I have never forgotten it."

Haldor stilled somewhat.

"You should eat," Aragorn continued. "It is late, and the days are long enough."

"I will bring your share."

"No," Aragorn answered. "I will not eat tonight. Nor tomorrow: you will share my morning meal among you."

"Chieftain…"

Aragorn shook his head.  _Do not!_  But Haldor could not remain silent.

"Aragorn," he said, and the use of his name made Aragorn pause. "How many days will you wait?"

"All of them."

Haldor searched him, no longer his subject, and for a fleeting moment Aragorn saw another in his place.

"For how long?" Haldor asked.

"Until there is enough."

Haldor shook his head. "There is never enough."

Aragorn sighed. He leaned back against the wall and looked up to where the darkness hid the roof of the cave.

"Did you not hear what I told Thalion? I will not play Sauron's games."

"You are playing, though."

"Not the game he expects; he only understand greed. But this is power left to me: the commander will have to interfere."

Haldor did not answer at once. They sat in silence for a while.

"Are you sure?"

Aragorn had expected questions, but not this.

"Yes," he answered. "I know."

"How?"

That was a question Aragorn did not wish to answer.

"You said, Chieftain, that you needed someone to ask. I know it should not be me, but there are no others, as so I ask: how do you know that the Enemy will not let you starve?"

"Starve, yes," Aragorn answered. "But not unto death."

Haldor waited for Aragorn to continue, but he did not.

"Aragorn, you but repeat what you have said, but give no answer."

Aragorn sighed. "I cannot give better, Haldor. Had Halbarad been here to ask me, I could have given no better. Can you not guess? But we have all known hunger before."

"Not like in this place." Even the skill of the Rangers could not find any eatable thing inside the caves of the mine. They had nothing but what the guards would give. Haldor could smell the evening meal cooking under Durion's hand. For all his efforts, it still tasted only a little better than their morning gruel. They were all too hungry to care at the end of the day. When had they last been able to eat their fill? And still… He looked at Aragorn. "Do you expect us to eat while you do not? You do not know the Dúnedain if you think we will."

Aragorn sighed again. "Will you disobey my orders, then? You never have before."

"You never asked us to see you starve while we eat."

"Then bring one portion, and tell the others we will share."

"And will you eat it?"

Aragorn did not answer, and Haldor knew he would not.

"Chief—"

"I need you, at least, to obey me, Haldor. If you want me safe, this will help more than anything you can do to keep the other prisoners at bay."

Aragorn held his eyes, and for the first time since he had been returned, Haldor fully saw his Chieftain.

"As you wish, my lord."

Aragorn winced.

"Do not wince," Haldor said. "You command, and I obey. Even with Halbarad, it was thus. Yet the others must be told; they will see your refusal to eat at the morning meal."

Aragorn nodded. "You are right, Haldor," he said. "Gather them. I risk you as well as myself with this plan: I will need the trust of the Dúnedain."

Haldor bowed and left to do as he had been bid.

…

_"On the morrow, Nagid will leave to take up command in Dol Amroth. My cousin and her nephew remain hidden, whether they fled with the Black Ships or later, I do not know. My hope is that they might find their way to your brother's kingdom, for with him, and with you, beloved, I sense now rest the hope of the Free People. The pride of Minas Tirith is broken, unless new pride should come to us from underneath the Shadow._

_One thing remains to me: the King is still unbroken."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> The Window there rippled so with silver and pearls in the moonlight on the night the Halflings were our guests. – see TT, The Forbidden Pool.
> 
> ...
> 
> A/N: My thanks, as always, to the wonderful people on The Garden of Ithilien for help, feedback and support. My beta JAUL sadly has problems with her internet so this version is not beta-read, but I will replace the chapter with the beta'ed one as soon as her connection comes back up. I have tried my best to weed out typos etc on my own. I will also thank Lindahoyland who spotted some missed mistakes in the last chapter: they will be fixed shortly.


	12. Once More Into the Breach.

_Beloved._

_Of all the cares and sorrows we must endure, this is one few in Gondor will understand. You, however, Lady of Rohan, will grieve with me at these news._

_To counter your brave Riders, the Mouth has ordered all the horses of Gondor to be gathered for the war. The best will be picked to do battle, or pull the wagons. Not even the farm-horses are except, though I know not how the farmers will fare without them. Except for my uncle's knights, we have few horses fit for war, and no wealth of horses compared to yours. Yet, the winter is hard, and mayhap the horses will fare better with the Enemy than with our farmers, who scarce can feed themselves._

_All the same, Éowyn, I grieve, for among the horses already picked, is my own, whom my brother gifted me._

_…_

Aragorn stood in front of his men. Soon the door would open. Soon the guards would come for the break of fast. Soon for their work. His work.

Many torches lit the cave around the door. Light was never bright in the mine; even so, it had still taken Aragorn many days to accustom himself to any light after the darkness of his cell in Bara-dûr. He wished not to face the guards blinking.

Thin, sunken cheeks about him, hollow, but with blurring eyes above. Aragorn stood tall among tall men. Soon the door would open. Soon the guards would come.

Heavy oak-planks the door, running from floor to the flat top of the opening, carved out of the rock. Iron bound it together, and of iron the hinges were, fitted into the rock with no frame to rest on. Aragorn could spot no crack or weakness. Soon the guards would come. Soon…

The door opened.

  _Breathe in, breathe out. These are your men._ Time to be king.

…

From the daily rapport of the mine, written in Commander Apam's hand:

_"I have yet to receive news of Elessar, the Hostage of the Great Lord — may His wisdom always guide me — after the delivery of rations last night. Captain Gorgol claimed it would breed resentment among the other prisoners and undermine the standing of Elessar and his Northmen among them, but our informant has not yet contacted us to confirm the captain's claim. It is still early, though, and cell fourteen is to be taken to their meal as I write. I fear I find myself impatient, which is a trait most unfitting."_

_…_

"Take me to Commander Apam."

The orc-guard thought little of his demand. "Shut your trap, you. There'll be no talking: you should know the rules by now."

"I must speak with him."

"Oh, you _must_ , must you?" But the orc drew back despite its mocking tone. It was of one of the smaller breeds, usually more cruel to the prisoners as if to make them pay for the treatment it received from the larger orcs. Here it shrank from the tall men, though loath to admit its fear.

"Yes." He spoke the word calmly. The orc sneered back.

"We'll see what the Captain thinks of that."

The orc-guard snapped his fingers at the soldiers beyond the door. Four of them, all Men or larger Orcs, stepped in. The Rangers tensed, but Aragorn shook his head. _Stay_.

They dragged him out though he tried to follow willingly, eager, he guessed, to prove their power. Behind him, he heard the orc-guard yell:

"Move, you lot. Filthy _tarks_! Move, or you'll all get piss for food. Or maybe none at all."

Aragorn was pushed past a bend, and the guards let him find his feet and walk on his own. He had guessed right.

Past tunnel-mouths and doors they walked, further than Aragorn expected. Torches gave way to lamps which burned with spluttering wicks. The oil smelled foul, but the light was clearer. Polished copper or bronze cast the light back into the tunnel, brighter than candlelight. Aragorn cursed his blinking eyes.

The guards paid little attention to him now that they were out of sight of the other prisoners. Aragorn walked between them, and tried to blink the tears from his eyes. The lamps gave way to torches again, but still Aragorn knew not these tunnels; the mine was more vast than he had guessed, even with Haldor's tales. How many guards to how many tunnels, he wondered. How easy would it be to lose himself in the maze? And how easy to stay lost? Would the guards even bother to search for one lost slave?  
 _For you they would._ Sauron would not let him escape that easily, but his men?

Aragorn's thoughts were cut short; at last they reached the Orc.

The guards had taken him the long way around. Captain Gorgol was in the large cave where the prisoners were sorted for work. He oversaw the sorting of a group of prisoners Aragorn had not seen before. Strong and stout they were, standing but half his height. Their beards were chopped short; Aragorn could not tell whether they were of Dain's people or from some other Dwarven kingdom, but he saw that they held themselves rigid with resentment.

Sullenly they stared down on the ground, like children before a hated schoolmaster. _No_ , he corrected himself. _Slaves before their taskmaster, just one more whip-crack from rebellion._ It was a look he had — unwittingly — sought among his own men in vain.

Heavy chains, thicker than any the Men wore, encased their feet, but they seemed better fed than any in his own cell, save Faron. Or newer come.

Captain Gorgol stood near the entrance to the working part of the mine; the arched doorway leading to the drafts and tunnels where ore was found. The Orc towered above the dwarves, but even so, he stood on the flat stone which he used to raise himself above the tall Men of Númenór.

Underneath, at Gorgol's feet, a cage stood.

The dwarves fell silent when they past it, silencing the low grumble which filled the rest of the cave. They kept their faces turned away from it, but each held a fisted hand to their chests.

The guards pushed Aragorn forward, through the line of dwarves, to stand before the captain. Gorgol did not look at him, but seemed to give all his attention to the dwarves marching by. Aragorn barely noticed; he saw, now he had come near, the dwarf locked inside the cage.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

The cage was made for Men - the dwarf could sit inside it with ease — yet he scowled at the Orc, offended by the indignity yet unwilling to let it show.

Aragorn did not recognise him, though he seemed to hold some importance to the other Dwarves. They might have been from the Blue Mountains by their garb, but Aragorn had had too few dealings with them to be sure. Halbarad would have known. Perhaps Taddal or Haldor would be able to tell.

The dwarf paid no more mind to Aragorn than captain Gorgol did. Aragorn searched the faces passing by, but he knew none. _There are other mines and prisons,_ he told himself. _He could be held somewhere else._ But would that be better? Aragorn shook the thought away. The movement caught the captain's eye.

"Elessar." In Gorgol's mouth the name was a mockery and curse. "What trouble has this _tark_ done?"

The dwarves turned their eyes to Aragorn, though they walked on as before. In the corner of his eye, he could see the caged dwarf shift, but Aragorn turned his face to Gorgol.

"I asked to be taken to Commander Apam," he answered before any of the guards could. "I must speak with him."

Gorgol jumped down from his stone and stalked close to Aragorn. "Must?" he said. "You _must,_ brigand? You _must_ nothing, but to learn your place." But the Orc had misjudged. When he came close, he came eye to eye with the burn-mark on Aragorn's chest.

"The Commander will wish to hear me, Captain."

"Know your place, _tark_!"

The Orc was strong for his kind, and his fist was swift. Aragorn coughed, dubbed over, and the guards let him drop to his knees. Aragorn could not see it, but the Dwarves stopped their march.

"Get to work, maggots!" Gorgol bellowed, " or it'll be the whip for all of you." By the time Aragorn recovered, the Dwarves were moving again.

He fastened his gaze on the Orc again. "Commander Apam."

The world turned red.

…

_"The hostage Elessar is a perceptive man. He does not yet suspect our informant, though he would not be so naive as to think we have no eyes in his cell. It would not serve the purpose of the Great Lord — may His mercy ever lead us — for him to find out as of yet. Not before he has learned that the Giver of Gifts — blessed His wisdom — cannot be denied."_

_…_

_Breathe in, breathe out._

The Orc was speaking, but Aragorn heard only the end of it.

"… demands, _Tark_?" Gorgol spat the last. Small speckles of spit hit Aragorn in the face and he closed his eyes against it, but opened them quickly enough. He blinked to clear his eyes and recover some dignity to face Gorgol again. The Orc loomed over him now, broad and powerful. It slapped him, hand open, and its claw-like nails raked his ear and cheek.

Aragorn reeled with the force of the blow, and it was the grip of the guards which kept him from falling. When he turned back, his ear was still ringing. He could see the Orc speaking, its teeth yellow and pointed. The front tooth was broken in a jagged line, and one of the fangs where missing. The mouth stopped moving before the ringing in his ear. He took a deep breath.

"Commander Apam," Aragorn said again. He coughed once more. "He will wish to hear me."

For a moment Gorgol did not move. Aragorn could see his mouth move, but he did not think the Orc spoke. The ringing in his ears died down. He swallowed before he lowered his gaze and spoke again.

"Your Master did not mark me idly."

Gorgol's hand clenched into a fist. It shook, but he did not raise it again. Aragorn kept looking ahead, his gaze blank, like a soldier waiting out his captain's anger. The skin on Gorgol’s hand was rough, even at the back, and his knuckles were smeared with blood. Red, with no hint of black. The skin was too hard to have been scraped so quickly. Aragorn gazed beyond the Orc, beyond the walls, to a horizon he could only remember.

The last scab had fallen from the burn days ago. The scar was still red and angry against his skin, but only the memory of pain remained; a ghost refusing to leave. It stung under the eyes of the Orc, as if Gorgol had the power to wake it.

…

_"You may wonder, beloved, to hear this, but it was already long since I rode a horse I could call my own when the darkness descended on us the first time. In Ithilien there were little use for horses, and the horses kept for our scouts has been enough for me. Hallant is old, and not fit for battle, but I treasured him and would have him live out his days in peace. I fear he will not live the see the Mark. My prayers would not sway the Mouth, had I the voice to say them. But how can I ask for the life of a horse, when I cannot save the farmers of Gondor?"_

_…_

"I said: what would your men think of you if they saw you now?"

Aragorn coughed again and did not answer. He could feel blood trickle from the corner of his mouth and gingerly he felt the cut with the tip of his tongue.

"You can keep the dwarf company: we have cages enough."

Aragorn looked back up on the Orc. "And what would Faron and his men think, if they saw me thus _privileged_?"

…

From the hand of Commander Apam we have not only the official reports, but also his private notes have been preserved. Their can be no doubt that these notes played a crucial part in the Commander's later fate, but their value to me has been even greater: too little would be known of the king's doings in captivity without them. The king himself was mostly unwilling to speak of it, and few of his fellow captives survived to bear witness. I give here an excerpt in the Commander's own words:

_"The Great Lord is blessed in his wisdom, and as He has commanded, I give particular notice to all things pertaining to the hostage Elessar. While I intend to write a more succinct and proper report, I have at the moment little to do but wait, and will record all developments as they occur in order for me to give a most comprehensive account._

_I have not heard from our informant, but Captain Gorgol sent me words that the hostage had demanded to see me, and would not say anything apart from that. I sent back orders that he should be kept waiting, for it would not do to let him think he has any power of command here. The Captain seemed concerned that Elessar would disrupt the working of the mine, so insistent was his demand to see me, and I therefore ordered that he be made to wait in bonds. The 'where' I left to the Captain's judgement. The discomfort will soften Elessar's hardness and remind him of his place."_

_…_

 Thalion gripped the empty basked and slung it over his shoulder. Time for cleaning after the Orcs meal; had he been luckier, he would have been sent to clean the Men’s tables. He was not hungry enough to be tempted by the leavings of the Orcs.

_You should look, all the same_ , he scolded himself. _You will be soon enough, and then you might not have the chance_. His stomach turned at the thought. No. Not yet.

He was early; the last group of Orcs left as he came, laughing at some cruel joke. He pressed himself into the wall, hunched and looking at the floor. He had learned that quickly enough. One of them aimed a kick at him and said something in its own tongue. Thalion caught the word " _tark"_ , and the laughter of its fellows. He covered, and breathed in relief when they pass with nothing more. Even so, he waited until the last disappeared around the corner before he rose. He rubbed his hip, though the orc's aim had been off; he would hardly even bruise. The basked lay at his feet, undamaged. He picked it up and walked on, in to the Orcs dinning-cave.

Inside Thalion stopped. A few steps from the mouth stood the whipping-post where a man, cruelly bound, strove to gain his feet.

"My lord."

Thalion did not shout. He did not drop his basked. He did not run. But he had never walked as fast as he did those few strides. He put the basked down and helped the King stand.

The King was bruised. Bloodied even. Thalion could feel him trembling with the effort to stand, but even standing could not fully ease the tension on his shoulders. Standing straight would pull them back, slumping would make it even worse. The King's breath was shallow and quick.

"My lord, what…?"

The King opened his eyes and blinked slowly a couple of times. "Thalion," he said. "I had not thought Gorgol would risk you seeing me like this."

"Why?"

The King's mouth quirked into a grimace. It took Thalion some time to recognise it as a smile.

"I am waiting for Commander Apam to see me," the he said. "Apparently there is a line."

Thalion blinked. The King's words made no sense, and then the King chuckled! The chuckle swiftly turned to coughing, and the King slumped forward against Thalion's shoulder. _But he had chuckled._

Thalion could see no telltale steaks of blood on the back of the King's shirt; if beaten, he had not been whipped. But the wrists bled, and his hands were swollen. The rope was too tight. Slowly he eased the King back up.

"My lord Elfstone, how…?" But how ask the King if his mind were lost?

"Mirth keeps light alive, Thalion, when the shadows grow. I expected some resistance from captain Gorgol, but Apam will not ignore me for long."

Thalion nodded, unsure of what to say. He glanced towards the Orcs' tables, littered with scraps of food and spilled drink, and then back to the King. The next shift of guards would come soon, yet he did not want to leave the King. Not without at least offering to ease his discomfort.

"How can I help, lord?"

The King seemed to stand taller and his stance seemed stronger at the question. His gaze pierced Thalion, as if he could read the secrets of his heart. Even on the second night, Thalion had not felt his gaze so strongly. He could well believe, now, the rumours that few of the Enemy's servants could bear to meet the King's eyes. He looked down. For a moment he could feel the gaze as strongly, then the tension eased, as of the King had released him.

"Do the work you was sent to," the King answered. "Clean, serve, and do not show concern for me within the sight of the guards." He paused, but before Thalion could answer, he added: "If I am not returned to the cell by night, let Haldor know where you last saw me." He swallowed, and then seemed to think better of it. "Let them know you saw me whole, but do not tell more: the Rangers will worry, but to little gain."

"You think my worry less, lord?"

"To you I am lord and king, Thalion. To them I have been hope."

Thalion could feel the moments pass, each one step closer to the next Orc-guards' meal. Each one moment less to fulfil his tasks. One moment closer to earning a punishment, however small or large. And yet… and yet he could not leave the King's words unchallenged.

"Not to them alone, my lord. Will you always favour them?"

"I was _hope_ to them when they did not know me. Years of shared danger and toil have not taken that away, but those years have made me more to them, and them to me. Few are left in Gondor whose bond to me is the same, and none in this cave. Do not let envy rule you! We may yet share dangers enough, Thalion. Besides," the King added, and his voice was tinted with sadness, "it is not for them I am here, but for you. You, and Hengest, and all the other men. Even Faron."

Shame. Red-hot coals of shame washed over him, leaving cold in its path. Thalion bowed his head again. "As you command, lord. Forgive me: I should not have doubted the Elfstone's word." The King said nothing to his words, but Thalion though he heard him sigh, more breath than sound. "But by your leave," he continued, "if it is your wish, I can bring you such food as is left unspoiled by the Orcs, for I guess that you were never taken to break you fast."

"No. Not even if these were the leavings of Men; eating would not serve my plan."

Thalion looked at the King anew. His face was bruised and there was a cut at the corner of his mouth but none of his eyes were swollen.

"Whatever your plan, this looks more like Gorgol's"

The King's mouth quirked in a smile, and Thalion found himself thinking that the King was a man he could have befriended, had he been a commoner in days of peace.

"Until I see Apam, that is what I wish the Orc to believe as well."

In the end, what could he do but to obey? One last offer of comfort was given, and refused — for the King would not accept the wine Thalion found among the leftovers. "I need my mind clear," was his only comment, and Thalion obeyed without further questions.

He cleaned the tables and the Orcs' leavings, readying the cave for when the next group of Orcs would take their meal. Barely did he finish in time, and the latest Orcs grumbled when he had not managed to bring their food before they were seated. They made sport of tripping the King while they waited, laughing at his struggles to regain his feet. Thalion worked faster at the sight, and when they were gone, he wasted no time on words again. But he took the time to help the King stand before he hurried on with his work. No orc was left waiting again.

After the second seating there was a break, but Thalion had no chance to speak with the King again; he spent the time washing the soiled plates and cups. When he returned for a new round of meals, the King had been taken away.

…

" _After waiting for several hours, I am considering whether to send for the hostage Elessar though our informant has given no sign. I have learned to trust his judgement on matters of time — it would not do to have suspicion fall on him already — but I wish to retire soon. Captain Gorgol has been known to let his Orcs play with the workers during discipline before, and the Great Lord's hostage should not be harmed yet. And I admit to being curious as to what lies behind Elessar's demand._

_Still, the Great Lord's plans must not fail because of my curiosity. His Hostage are not to be given any victory, however small."_

…

"Up!"

But Aragorn couldn't. Not yet. The ground was softer here, a thin layer of soil covering the stone, slightly damp. He felt it at the edge of his mind, and tried to steer his thoughts towards it. Better than drowning in stinging fire.

"On your knees!"

Movement came back, but slowly. Inch by inch dragging his arms underneath himself. He risked a glance at his hands, but could not yet tell whether the damage were beyond healing. Haldor would have to clean the wrists later; the soil mixed with the blood to form a sticky mud. He doubted Gorgol would care.

_Sauron would_. The thought was no comfort.

He hoisted himself up on his elbows, but the guards lost their patience. One grabbed his hair and dragged him up to his knees. Aragorn coughed.

"The comand—"

Gorgol cut him off. "Commander Apam has more important things to do. You've lazed around enough today: you're to work in what you've wasted. The Commander will see you when he's ready."

Aragorn looked around. He could not remember being in this cave before. It was large, but mainly empty. One huge wheel stood in the middle, driving some contraption. It reminded him of wells he had seen in the desert, where water were drawn by asses or oxen.

"I must see—"

"Now you listen here, _tark_ ," Gorgol interrupted, "you'll work, or I'll string you up again. And you'll still work the full day before I'm through with you. _If_ the Commander wishes to see you, he'll send for you. You understand?"

_Breathe in, breathe out…_

"Do you understand!"

The Orc shook him, as if it would make his point clearer. Perhaps it did. Not trusting his voice, Aragorn nodded.

"Good." Gorgol let go, and turned.

"The commander will want to hear me."

He did not have time to say anything more. The Orc whirled back. "Shut your trap, or I'll make sure it stays shut until _I_ 'll let you open it."

_Breathe in…_

_…_

_"I had decided to wait for Captain Gorgol's report before retiring, but I am not sure whether it did any good. Elessar has been most persistent in his demands to meet me, and I find myself wondering if I should have him fetched after all. The Captain assures me that Elessar has been forced to work in silence, but the lengths which he had to go in order to compel the Hostage's obedience, worries me. And yet, I cannot seem lenient, nor have the Hostage think I am his to call upon._

_My eyes tire so that I can hardly make out my own words. I will await, as was my plan, and let sleep bring counsel."_

_…_

Haldor stayed by the door of the cell, and not even Taddal could convince him otherwise. The Chieftain did not return. One by one, the other Rangers were returned, with Belith and Badhor as the last, but not the Chieftain. At the back of his mind he noted that Hengest and Thalion, too, were missing, but he paid it no mind. Taddal waited with him until Haldor sent him away. Faron saw him, and sneered, when he was returned, but Haldor sent him one look, and he slunk away.

The Chieftain did not return.

Taddal came to ask him eat, but Haldor would not budge. At length, he heard the door unlock. He tensed, ready to call for the Rangers to help, but it was not the Chieftain. Hengest and Thalion were retuned as the last, but for one.

Thalion gave him one look, and said: "He has not returned."

"What do you know of it?"

Thalion held up a hand. "Peace, Haldor," he said. "A fool could guess from your face alone that the King has not yet been returned. You worry."

"Should I not?"

Thalion half-turned his head. "Could you…?" he asked Hengest. The Rider nodded.

"The outcast and the stranger must fend for each other," he said. "None else will, it seems." He left them. Haldor said nothing to his words. Too true, yet Haldor could not bring himself to care. Not now.

"I have seen the King," Thalion said once they were alone. "He bade me tell you, should there be need, that he was whole last I saw him. And confident in his plans."

"Confident? Whole?" His voice must have betrayed him, for Thalion smiled, but not from mirth.

"He did not want you to worry."

"And I ask you again: should I not?"

"You should." Thalion sighed. "Forgive me, but I must break the King's faith, or tell you no more."

"Speak!" Haldor did not hesitate. Thalion did, but still he told him all he knew.

"The King had been taken away long before my work ended," Thalion ended his tale. "I know no more, but he seemed confident that Gorgol would take him to the Commander in the end."

Haldor closed his eyes and rubbed his face. "So it has began," he said. It was worse than when Belith had returned, mute and locked in his own head. He caught Thalion's questioning eyes.

"He has done what you wished," he said. "The Chieftain has become the King. And we may both loose him for it." He shook his head. "Go, Thalion. Take your meal and your rest. But if you will, go ask the Rangers to send two more to keep watch with me. I fear for how the King will be returned to us."

Thalion nodded, and left. And Haldor waited by the door. The Chieftain did not return.

…

_"Still, my heart cannot bear the thought, beloved, that Hallant shall be worked to death at the hands of Orcs or the soldiers of the Enemy. In the morning I will try, one more time, to seek audience with the Mouth. Wish me luck, beloved, Lady of horses, and lend me the steel of your heart, for I fear mine has melted within me."_

…

When next the door opened, the soldiers came to fetch them to the day's work. Taddal knew his captain well, for before Haldor could open his mouth, he had stepped forward already and asked after the Chieftain. He got a beating for an answer, and none asked again.

Later, working by his side, Haldor asked: "Why?"

"Because you would have asked, had not I, and we need you whole."

"We need the Chieftain whole," Haldor answered, but Taddal shook his head.

"None of us can take his place. And _he_ needs you whole, more, perhaps, than the rest of us."

Again the two of them were returned before the rest, and Haldor waited by the door. This night Thalion had no news, and none other had seen the Chieftain during the day. When time came to rest, Taddal came to wait with Haldor, but he sent him back to sleep.

"You need the rest: it was you who took the beating. And I fear the Chieftain will not be returned to us yet."

"Then you should take your rest as well," Taddal answered.

"This task is mine," Haldor answered. "And if I am wrong, then one of us, at least, should meet him when he comes."

"You need not do it alone, and I fear that when the Chieftain returns, you will need the help."

"You are right," Haldor agreed. "But I need to be alone, and I do not think the Chieftain will return tonight. They kept Belith for a week."

Taddal could not gainsay his guess. Haldor watched him return to the others, and he waited while the troches were put out. Slowly the cave darkened, as the light went out one torch at a time. Last where the troches in Faron's corner, and then darkness reclaimed the cave.

Darker than any starless sky, Haldor had not really considered the darkness they lived in. Rarely did the Rangers let all their troches out unless they posted no guards. But the last provisions had not only lacked in food. Haldor would not waste any of the torches they had left. He waited in the dark for the Chieftain he did not think would come.

He was mistaken.

…

From the daily rapport of the mine:

_"I have decided to wait even further before sending for the Hostage Elessar. From what Captain Gorgol tells me, he has been persistent in his demands, and it will not do to have him think I will give in to any demands he will make. He will continue to work, and wait for my leisure._

_The Great Lord — may His wisdom guide me — will, I hope, confirm my decision when I can present Elessar's capitulation. He will not be able to resist for long._

_The spy has yet to give words."_

Yet the King Elessar proved stronger than Commander Apam guessed, and the loyalty he inspired more enduring than the Enemy reckoned.

…

It was long into the night. Haldor had fallen asleep in the dark, but he woke at the sound of feet outside the door. One slept light in Mordor, and Haldor was on his feet before the door opened. The light outside blinded him, and when the door shut again, the dark was deeper than before. Haldor did not care.

He scrambled closer, to the heap of a man lying where he had been thrown. There was breath in him still; Haldor could hear him groan softly. Around them, the cave slept on, for the guards had been quiet. Feeling his way, Haldor touched the soft warmth of a body, and felt it flinch underneath his hand.

"Peace, Chieftain. It is I, Haldor." He kept his voice soft. The Chieftain stilled, but made no answer. Just a creaking, frog-like sound escaped him. Haldor felt his way to his head and gently placed his hand upon it. "Can you walk?"

He felt the Chieftain shake his head. Fear crept into his voice when next he asked:

"Are you hurt?"

The Chieftain did not respond at first, but stayed still, as if pondering his answer. Then Haldor felt another shake of the head. It did not feel convincing.

"Can you manage with my help?"

This time the Chieftain nodded, and Haldor prepared to lift him from the floor. Getting one knee under himself, he slid the Chieftain's arm over his shoulder and held fast the wrist. Aragorn groaned, but made no other protest. But neither did he help when Haldor rose, lifting them both from the floor, but hung limp at his side.

The grip was awkward; Haldor could feel his Chieftain slipping. They would not reach the Rangers this way. He tried to lower him gently to the ground so he could find a better way to carry him, or, at worst, fetch help, though he did not want to leave the Chieftain alone. But Aragorn's wrist was slippery and slick, and Haldor lost his grip. The Chieftain fell, and Haldor followed him down.

The sound woke some of the prisoners, and a voice complained about the racket. Haldor ignored it, but he was less inclined to leave his Chieftain now.

"Chieftain?"

Aragorn made the same frog-like sound. He stopped, and Haldor could hear him take a deeper breath, but instead of words, his Chieftain began to cough.

"Don't try to speak. Not yet." Haldor closed his eyes and cursed himself for sending Taddal away. He would have to call the Rangers, even if it would wake the whole cave. But before he could, he heard a shuffling sound, and movement of a body nearing them.

"Stay!" His voice was sharp. "State your intent."

"You sound like my _marshal_."

Hengest. Haldor relaxed, if only a little.

"I thought Rangers were quiet," the Rider continued, "but in this dark, I guess even you stumble."

Haldor nodded, though Hengest would not be able to see. "I did not wish to wake any unneeded," he said. "But since you are awake, could you fetch some of the Rangers for me? The Chieftain has been returned, but I fear he is gravely wounded. I need help carrying him back."

It was too dark to see even shadows, but Haldor could hear the rustle of clothes when Hengest knelt beside him, and his voice was closer when he spoke again.

"It would be quicker for me to help — I have not yet lost all my strength. Is he awake?"

Haldor felt the Chieftain move beneath his hand. "Yes," he answered, "though he cannot walk or speak. I need light to see what has been done to him."

"He would rest better among your kin."

Haldor could feel the Chieftain nod at Hengest's words. The movement was feeble and weak, but not to be mistaken. "Yes," he answered, and together they lifted the Chieftain from the floor.

Again Aragorn groaned when they stood. They had each pulled an arm across their shoulder. Haldor could feel him twitch, as if he tried, and failed, to get his feet under him. Together they half bore, half dragged, him back to the smaller cave. It was a slow walk in the dark, and they moved with care as to no stumble, or walk into a sleeper.

Haldor breathed in relief when he heard Badhor's challenge.

"We need light, Badhor," he answered. "The Chieftain has been returned to us."

He kept his voice soft, as to no wake the others, but none of the Rangers, it seemed, slept easy that night. Quickly a torch was light, and the Rangers flocked around. One took Hengest place, two others bent to lift the Chieftain's legs. Haldor meant to thank him for the help, but in the bustle the Rider was lost behind a wall of Rangers, and he did not follow them further inside. Or some of the Rangers stopped him. Haldor did not see; his thoughts were with his Chieftain.

They laid him down on the straw. His hair hang over his face, mated and tangled and he pulled away when Haldor tried to push it aside.

"Fetch me Rhíhul's bag," he ordered. "And a water-skin." He turned back to the Chieftain. Belith was kneeling at the other side, coming closer than he had since the Chieftain's arrival. "Help me. It will be easier for him to drink if he sits."

Belith nodded, and together they eased Aragorn up until he sat, resting against the wall. Belith, Haldor noted, made sure his face stayed covered by his hair. When the water came, it was Belith who took it, and without words he offered it to the Chieftain. He drank, some of his strength returning so he could hold on to the drinking-skin. Haldor watched, and saw the blood smear on his hands and wrists. Some old and brown. Some red and glistering.

"Chieftain, what do you need?"

Aragorn swallowed and pushed the skin away. His breath was short and laboured, and he took several deep breaths, as if to prepare himself. He held his face hidden. Haldor could barley hear him, and leaned close to catch his words.

"Don't let the men see me like this."

"Are you hurt?" A new concern crept into Haldor's voice. Never had he seen his Chieftain so frail. But Aragorn shook his head, though he did not speak again. His breath continued to come in gasps.

"I will keep the others away," Haldor promised, "but let at least one of us look at you: you are bleeding. Taddal, or B—"

"I am not hurt." The Chieftain's voice was hard and it rang clear in the silence of the cave, but when he spoke on, it softened. "Stay, Haldor, and let Taddal keep the others away. I have need of you."

Haldor nodded. "As you wish."

He turned his eyes to Belith, but he was already withdrawing. And when he lifted his head, he saw that Taddal had the Rangers retreat out of their little cave, leaving their Chieftain as much solitude they could. Badhor was the last, leaving Rhíhul's bag behind. Whether they had heard the Chieftain's first words, or guessed from his lasts, Haldor could not say.

Haldor turned back. The Chieftain had not moved, still half sitting, half lying against the wall, his face turned away.

"We are alone, Chieftain. Will you tell me your need?"

"Aragorn," he answered. "Use my name; now is the time I need to be other than Chieftain." But Haldor hesitated.

"I need Halbarad."

"I am not your kinsman, lord." Haldor had no other answer.

At those words, the Chieftain turned and in the flickering half-light of the torch, Haldor saw that his face was wet and pale. His skin was grey, but there were red marks around the corner of his mouth, and his lip had split and bled at one side. There were bruises on his cheek, a day old.

"You must be in his stead," Aragorn said. If there had been any other man, Haldor would have said he pleaded. But Chieftains do not plead.

"What have they done to you?" Haldor asked.

"I am past my strength. It will pass, but… the men, do not let them see me like this."

"We have never known your strength to run out." Even to his own ears, Haldor sounded lost.

"Halbarad did."

Haldor did not answer. He watched his Chieftain close his eyes and rest his head against the stone. He watched his chest move in shuddering, hitched breaths. He watched his hands clench. He watched them shake, and he watched in silence because he did not know what to say. He watched through his own mounting fear and thought: _The others must never know._

And he knew.

"Aragorn," he said, and put a hand upon his shoulder. "You are my Chieftain, my lord and King, and never will you be other. I can not be Halbarad, but I am your captain, and what you need, I will provide. You are our strength. Borrow mine until yours is regained."

Under his hand, Aragorn's breaths did not ease, but they became deeper and his body un-tensed.

"Thank you."

Aragorn said no more, and he did not open his eyes. Haldor stayed beside him until his breath slowed and his body hovered on the brink of sleep. Long he tarried there, between the waking world and dreams — too tired to speak, or move, or sleep — the stone cold and steady against his back, until he felt the warmth of Haldor's hand leave him. He fumbled for it.

"Stay." His voice was low, neither a pleading nor command, but a man voicing his need.

"I am here," Haldor answered, his hand again warm against Aragorn's shoulder. "But let me fetch the water to refresh you, and to wash your wounds." Aragorn nodded, but Haldor's warmth lingered a moment more.

"Aragorn," he spoke again. "Will you take food, so you can regain your strength?"

"No." If he had had the strength, Aragorn's voice would have been sharp. "Do not tempt me. Or all will have be in vain."

"Water, then." The warmth left, but soon returned. Haldor helped Aragorn drink.

"How long?" Aragorn opened his eyes. "How long have I been gone?"

"Two days, if days they are," Haldor answered. "We have worked twice and slept once since last we saw you." He paused. As he opened his mouth, Aragorn spoke again.

"My arms need tending," he said. "I… I will need help with the shirt."

Haldor nodded and helped his Chieftain undress, as if he were a child. Aragorn winched whenever he had to move his arms.

"Aragorn, what did they do?"

There were bruises on his chest, a day old, but it was the wounds around his wrists and elbows which spoke of worse treatment than a beating. Aragorn did not answer him.

"Aragorn." Haldor's voice was not sharp, as it would have been with any of the others, but the edge of reproach was there, lingering just outside hearing. "Thalion told me of the orc-dens." And the reproach crept into hearing.

Aragorn sighed. "I told him not to."

"I left him no choice."

At that Aragorn smiled. "Halbarad would have done the same." He began to lift his arm, but winced and let it fall. "My wrists needs tending, and I need help to gauge the damage."

Haldor did, washing the blood away and watching the Chieftain open and close his fists with difficulties. New blood began to tickle, but the flow was slight, and soon stopped. Haldor found some strips of cloth, which Rhíhul had turned into bandages before he died, and wrapped Aragorn's wrists. This, the bandaging of wounds, all Rangers knew well enough. Then he turned to wash clean the elbows.

"Aragorn, I can guess at how these wounds came to be from Thalion's tale, but your elbows are only slightly better, and you seem worn beyond what even such torment would explain. And so I ask again: what did they do?"

"Like Halbarad indeed." Again the smile; half in sorrow, half in fond remembrance. But this time he answered. "I have worked with little rest, pulling the water-wheel, but other than that they did little. Whenever my stumblings came too often, they would bind me so that my rest would not be in comfort. Since my wrists were damaged, they found another way."

Haldor swore. Aragorn did not elaborate, but he did not need to: Haldor could guess. He tied off the last bandage and began to gently feel the muscles around Aragorn's shoulders.

"I don't think they have been pulled from their place," Aragorn said, "but… I cannot tell for certain." He gasped when Haldor found a sore spot.

"I do not have your skill, but I think they only have been strained. But I should wash your face and mouth, and, Aragorn, _this_ , this is hurt." Haldor brushed his fingers over the cut at the corner of this Chieftain's mouth. Aragorn drew away, but let Haldor wash it.

"Gorgol tired of hearing me ask to be taken to the Commander." He said no more while Haldor washed the last grime away and eased his shirt back on. His eyes slipped close while Haldor packed Rhíhul's bag away, and Haldor thought he had drifted off to sleep when he spoke again.

"They hope weariness will make me break my resolve: I have not been allowed to see Apam."

To Haldor he looked much smaller than he had ever seen his Chieftain, older and more frail.

"They call me _king_ to mock me, but they do not know a king's task."

"And what is a king's task, Aragorn?"

"That of every man: to serve. And you, Captain, know now the difference between a leader and a follower."

Haldor nodded. The torch above them spluttered and went out. In the dark, Aragorn's breathes felt deeper and his presence stronger to Haldor. The only light came from the opening of the cave, where the Rangers had taken up guard, or made for themselves a place to rest. Haldor could smell the smoke, and his mind remembered the mingling smell of roasted meat, newly caught, and the fresh scent of moss and pine. The murmur of the men reminded him of the voice of his brother singing at the end of the day. Life was easier then, when he could follow. He knew the difference Aragorn spoke of.

He stopped the drinking-skin and eased his Chieftain down on the floor. "Sleep, King of Númenór," he said. "Where all your ancestors gathered, you would not be shamed to stand among them."

Aragorn did not answer, but his body relaxed into sleep.

…

_"The guards did not stop me when I entered the stables. Whether on the Mouth's command or not, I do not know. Hallant was restless in his stable, and had grown thin since last I saw him. Older, he seemed to me, than I remembered, but he greeted me gladly. Old and mouldy his straw, but alt least his stall was clean and the water fresh. Balls of half-chewed hay lay around his crib, and when I asked, the stable-boy told me that Hallant would spit out half his food in such balls, as if he could not chew it properly._

_'The hay is too rough for him,' he said. 'His teeth are too old. I've given him fresh grass whenever I could pick some, and that he eats well enough. But there is no more grass, and I am not allowed to give him mash. Grain is only for the horses of the Haradrim these days.'_

_There was no other choice to make, beloved. The reprimand might be harder than I dare guess, but Hallant suffers no longer. Of the all the sorrows of this year, this, beloved, none in Gondor will understand, nor will they, I think, understand the choice. With my own hand, I cut Hallant's throat there in the stable, before my guards could stop me._

_The knife was my secret, held against a day of need. Or on the chance that I could turn it against_ his _tormentor. Now that chance will never come, and the people of Gondor may yet curse me for it._

_But of all this, hardest to bear is the blood that will not wash away."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all of you who have patiently waited for this new chapter. I hope get back to a monthly schedule eventually, but even if I am not able to, I promise that I am not abandoning this story.
> 
> As always, the wonderful people on The Garden of Ithilien has helped with planning and feedback, and I am very grateful for their help. I have not had this chapter to a final beta as of yet, but hopefully I have been able to weed out most of my typos.


	13. The Rain Fall Heavy, and the Sky is Grey.

_"I expected to be reprimanded for going against the orders of the Mouth, but apart from loosing the only weapon I had hidden away, nothing has yet happened. After a week, I stopped expecting repercussions at every moment, but I still worry what the Enemy might do. The Mouth said nothing before he left, but there are others, watching me. I do not doubt they report my every move. I fear they are but biding their time. They always address me as 'Steward', never by my name. As if to remind me. As if I could forget my king._

_No news has reached me of him. I can only hope his status as hostage will protect him, but I know: the Enemy lies."_

…

Since the first morning in the mine, Aragorn had been woken by Haldor's gentle touch. Each morning he flinched, until he heard Haldor's voice and felt the warmth of the bodies around him. This morning he did not. This morning he was heavy with sleep, too deep to fully wake. This morning he groaned and swatted Haldor away. This morning, he was too weary to flinch from remembered touch.

"Chieftain, the guards come."

The hand shook him firmer, and Aragorn groaned again, and woke to a body more sore than he could remember.

"Can you stand?"

Sleep had not fully restored him, but he nodded and rolled to get his hands and knees underneath himself. Rolled to force his body to obey and rise. Sore and stiff his limbs, but it was not until he tried to push himself from the ground that Aragorn felt the damage done to his arms.

"Aragorn!"

_Breathe in…_

"Help me stand," he answered. "My arms…" He shook his head. "My feet should hold."

Haldor expressed his doubt, but Aragorn proved him wrong: once up, he was able to stand unaided. His arms were stiff and only with difficulty could he move his fingers. He forced them to open and close, trying to judge how serious the hurt. Slowly movement came easier.

"Chieftain?"

Haldor hovered close, standing between him and the mouth of the cave. None of the other Rangers were near. Aragorn did not take his eyes off his hands.

"They should heal," he said. "I feel no numbness."

"Aragorn."

He looked up at the use of his name. The night had wrought a change in Haldor and Aragorn had been too weary to see it.

"You should not work," Haldor said. "I will speak with the guards."

"Gorgol has Angbor work with a broken hand."

"Angbor bears no mark."

Aragorn did not answer at first, but his eyes grew hard.

"Aragorn—"

"Halbarad would have given such reply," Aragorn said. "I know what I asked last night, but I must be Chieftain today. _I_ will not allow it."

Haldor bowed. "Chieftain," he said, "permit me to say this: if you continue, a day soon will come when you cannot rise, whether the guards or yourself would allow it or not."

"I know," the Chieftain answered. "Yet I cannot do other. No other power is left me."

"And what of the men, when that day comes? It will be no hiding then."

Aragorn had no time to answer: the shout waning of the guards rang through the prison, all the way into the Rangers' cave, and there were no more time for words. Aragorn turned and hastened to the door, and Haldor followed. If his strides were shorter than in the days where he earned his name in Bree, Haldor said nothing of it, but they were not long — nor fast — enough to reach the door in time. The guards where there, shouting at the men to hurry. One of them caught eye of Aragorn and Haldor behind the rest.

"Skulking about, _tarks?"_ it leered. It was the same, small Orc which Aragorn had spoken to before. "Not so high 'n mighty now." It stopped the two before they could rejoin the others, but its eyes were trailed on Aragorn. "I should report you, _tark_ , for tardiness. It'll go bad for you if I do." It paused, as if it needed to make its insinuation clear. Before it spoke again, Aragorn took a deep breath.

"Take me to Commander Apam."

…

From the official reports of the mine:

_"The Dwarven workers continue to work as long as their leader's well-being is threatened. I continue to search for a better solution, for a mouth with no hands are of little use, but the Dwarves are a race more stubborn than any I have seen. I worried for a time if the Men of the North would pose a similar problem, but they, it seems, are wiser, if not less stubborn, as the Lord's — may He guide me always — Hostage amply proves._

_The Captain informs me that the Hostage Elessar has made the same demands as before, and that he has given him the same treatment as before. This worries me, for Elessar should long have been dissuaded from such demands. Since the Great Lord's — His wisdom is without compare — command stands, I reminded Captain Gorgol of this, but I also made it clear that I will not let Elessar dictate our meetings. He cannot be allowed such victory, nor think my command weak._

_Our informant is still silent. I will have him brought to me at the end of the day, should he not come himself. My patience grows thin."_

_…_

Aragorn was returned to his cell late that night, as late as the night before. Three Rangers waited for him, and if his strength was more than it had been the last time, they could not see it. Haldor ordered them out, though Belith lingered longer than the rest. For a moment Haldor thought he would speak, but he did not.

Aragorn did not speak of his day, nor did he allow Haldor to see if he had any new wounds. But when Haldor rose to leave, he whispered "Stay," and his voice begged where his eyes would not.

Haldor stayed, offering what strength he had in silence.

In the morning, Aragorn rose with a heavy heart, and heavy was all his limbs. Haldor said nothing, and he stood behind his Chieftain when the door opened.

"Take me to Commander Apam."

…

_"The rains are setting in, beloved, and the days grows dim and grey. The darkness of the Enemy was hard to endure, but this greyness — though it reoccur every year — saps the spirit. The houses of Minas Tirith grows damp and chilly, and I have always longed to be away. The rains of Ithilien never seemed as cold in my memories._

_Are you cold, beloved? The Mouth never hesitates to send tidings of his victories, and today I heard that Edoras had fallen. No word was said of you or your brother, and that I read as hopeful: the Mouth would relish the proclamation of your deaths or capture. Still, I do not know whether you have taken refuge in another stronghold, or if you are on the plains, with no shelter from the autumn rains."_

_…_

It could not continue. Haldor did not know how, but he knew it could not continue. Three more days, and there was no change, other than Aragorn growing weaker. And thinner. He understood, now, the half-heard curses Halbarad had muttered about their Chieftain's stubbornness. But this was Mordor; something would have to give, and Haldor feared it would not be the Orc. Or the Commander, but Haldor did not trust the Orc to even inform the Commander, no matter what the Enemy might have planned.

_Would it not be better,_ a traitorous voice whispered in his mind. _Would not death be kinder than any plan the Enemy might have? A quick death of his own choosing?_

But the cell was dark, and it grew even darker with that voice. That voice which became a body, tangible and heavy, hammering on his mind. Under that voice, Haldor could feel the weight of stone above him and the unmoving barrier of the walls locking them in. The grumbling of Faron's men grew more threatening in his ears, and it made him have the Rangers stay close, no less than four together outside the safety of their little cave.

Before, he had forgotten the light of sun and stars, until the Chieftain had been returned to them. Haldor feared to forget again.

_He has chosen to live,_ he answered the voice. _Who am I to question that choice?_ That silenced the voice for a while.

Smoke broke his argument, and drew him back to the presence of the cave. Durion squatted beside their fire-place, feeding kindle to the embers. The wood was raw, unlike the firewood they usually had been given. Another punishment, Haldor guessed, for having _the king_ in their midst. Durion had laid the evening meal out beside the fire, preparing to cook it. The remembered smell of food caused Haldor to pause. He could do little to ease Aragorn's sufferings, but one thing he had not even thought of.

"Durion," he said, and the youth looked up from his task.

"Captain?"

"Just boil the water. We can eat the food cold."

"But…"

"Food is running low already; we need not tempt hungry men with the smell."

"We always cook the food," Durion protested. "Rhíhul said it was safer."

"We also take risks for the sake of others," Haldor said. "We are Rangers, not thugs."

Durion opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment Belith, who had been sitting half-hidden in the shadows beside him, placed his hand on Durion's arm and silenced him. In the light from the kindling, Belith's eyes were sharp and aware. Durion bowed his head and obeyed.

Later Taddal came to ask how long they were to eat their food cold.

"Until there are no men who must smell the food, and not eat."

Taddal regarded him for a moment. "Faron will continue to cook," he said. "The other men are not your concern. If not for _him_ , we would do so still."

"That is our failing," Haldor answered. His voice was sharp, but coloured with the hollowness of despair rather than the heat of anger. "Or, rather, mine."

Taddal did not answer, but in his silence Haldor heard his own accusation. _Tell the truth._ Haldor sighed.

"The Chieftain is too stubborn to break his resolve, but though I do not like it, we need not make it harder for him. We all know why."

"Yes." Taddal relaxed his stance. "Yet we only see him returned, too weary to stand on his own. He hides his struggle from all but you, but even so one need not be a seer to see his strength is failing."

"Taddal, when have you ever known the Chieftain's strength to fail?"

"He has always hidden his weakness, Haldor. Where have you been, that you have not seen it before? But I see no failing here, no more than I would had he been caught underneath an avalanche, or the trunk of a falling tree. Did he not see, even if you did not, that hunger would weaken him before the Commander would act? The Orc but hastens the process."

"A leader must be strong, Taddal. This much I have learned as captain: that I now will go on without complain where before I would have been driven only by the command of others, because I must. Because I cannot lead men if I do not go myself with strength."

"And this the Chieftain does, for he is unbending in his resolve. Even through the failing of his body's strength. Faron grumbles, and others might listen because they do not see the price the Chieftain is willing to pay. Thalion is right in this: we hide him, and that hurts his standing in the cave. He even hides from us, who never will abandon him. And you help him do it."

"What will you have me do?" The darkness of the whispering voice crept into Haldor's words. Halbarad might have spoken words which the Chieftain would heed, even when he wished not, but Haldor were not kinsman to the Chieftain. Bitterness tingled on the edge of his voice. "Did you choose me captain that I might become a messenger?"

Taddal shook his head. "I merely am to you, what you must be to him." And he said no more.

…

The King Elessar was a hardy man, said to even be the most hardy of any living Man, yet even his strength was quickly sapped during those days of hunger. No doubt the time in Bara-dûr had already taken much of his strength, but hunger and hard work will quickly wear a man down, be he ever so strong. In less than a week — if Commander Apam's reports can be believed — the King grew thin and wan, and he would stumble and fall more and more during his work.

Late he was returned for his rest, and sleep did not restore him, yet every morning he would make the same demand. And receive the same answer.

On the sixth night, King Elessar was returned to the cell earlier than before. The men had just laid down to sleep, and the only light where from the Rangers standing guard by the door. Some of the men slept, too weary for dreams or the tossing of free men, but few slept deeply yet, and many were woken when the guards threw him through the door. The Rangers hurried to his side, while the others turned, and muttered curses at their disturbed rest. But when Badhor, who where the first to reach his Chieftain, grasped his shoulder to turn him and help him rise, he let out such a cry that the cave turn to see.

Badhor snatched back his hand as if burned. Haldor, ever on watch, hurried to his side. In the flicker of the torches, the Chieftain writhed on the floor, clutching at his shoulder. Haldor knelt beside him.

"Chieftain," he said. "Aragorn, how can we help?" None of the Rangers dared touch him.

Aragorn opened his eyes. His breathing was heavy and quick. "Bind it to my side," he said through clenched teeth. "Then help me stand: I would rather not have you set it here." He moved his hand away. The left arm lay useless at his side and the shoulder looked wrong.

"Chieftain—"

"It has been pulled from its joint. I do not want the setting of it to be a spectacle for Faron and his men."

_Perhaps it should._ The thought came unbidden, and Haldor dismissed it as soon as it came. Instead he tore off his own shirt, and with the help of Badhor and Magor he bound the Chieftain's arm to his side so that it should not move and cause him more pain. The Chieftain flinched when they tightened the bindings, but made no sound. Neither did he do more than grunt when they helped him to his feet, but he could not stand on his own. Haldor slid his right arm over his own shoulders.

Well inside their cave, they lay him down. Haldor loosened his shirt, and before he could ask for water, Belith was there, holding the drinking skin out for him. He helped Aragorn drink.

"We will need to set your shoulder."

Aragorn nodded. "Some of you will need to hold me down," he said. "You must pull on my arm until—"

"Chieftain," Haldor interrupted. "We know what to do: we are Rangers. Setting a shoulder is not beyond us: you made sure we all knew."

"Of course." Aragorn's voice was weak. "Let me have something to bite."

Haldor guessed they would need the bandages Rhíhul had made, so he folded the sleeve of his own shirt, not yet donned, and offered it to the Chieftain. He took it between his teeth and gave a short nod; he was ready. Taddal and Badhor took their places, but Belith silently interrupted. Without words he took Taddal's place by the Chieftain's shoulder, leaving Taddal to help Haldor pull the arm back into place.

Aragorn strained against the pain, but he had little strength left and the men held him easily. When it was done and the shirt fell from his mouth, Haldor wished they could let him rest. But the shoulder needed to be kept it in place. He asked the others to help the Chieftain sit.

"Shall we take off his shirt?" Badhor asked, but Haldor shook his head.

"No need to cause him more pain. There are no blood to staunch."

Badhor answered, "His shirt is bloody," at the same moment as Aragorn said, "My back needs tending." Aragorn's voice was weak, and he did not open his eyes, but they heard him.

"What have they done?" Haldor asked, but the Chieftain did not answer; he only gritted his teeth against the removal of his shirt.

Across his back a single, bloody welt stretched, trailing from the right shoulder towards the left hip. Haldor cursed to see it and called for another torch to be lit. The wound was fresh, but the blood had begun crusting. The rest of the skin was unbroken, and Haldor saw, for the first time, clearly the scars there. It startled him. He had known, but the sight…

"I have suffered worse whippings," Aragorn mumbled. "As you can see."

What reply could one make to that? "Now I can," Haldor muttered back. Louder he said: "I need water."

Quickly he washed the wound and bound the shoulder to help keep it in place while it healed. He noticed how Aragorn's ribs stuck out, more than could be seen under the shirt; he could count the bones of his spine.

_Enough! This cannot continue._

As they carefully slid the shirt back on their Chieftain, Haldor turned to Taddal.

"Gather the men."

…

_"Our informant is not forthcoming, thought I have had him summoned twice. The hostage Elessar, he claims, confides in none but his own men and even them he turns away each night. Only one man truly has his confidence, and it is yet too early to summon him. The_ tark _-captain resisted at our last attempt to sway him, and Captain Gorgol reports that he grown more slippery and cautious since the Lord's — may His mercy always guide us — Hostage arrived. Had it not been for my orders, I would have separated the Hostage from his men, for he sets them back and makes them cling to their old ways."_

_…_

"Haldor."

Stiff neck, square shoulders, Haldor kept his ground, his back to his Chieftain. He did not turn at Aragorn's command. Taddal hesitated, torn between the order of his Captain and his Lord. Haldor gripped his arm and pulled him away from Aragorn.

"Trust me, Taddal, and obey."

"The Chieftain…"

"Remember you own words. I know the Chieftain is not well, and he should rest, but tomorrow will be the same as today; there will not be a time when he is rested enough. You must see, and he must hear the counsel of all the Dúnedain. He will not listen to mine alone." Haldor muttered the last.

"Very well," Taddal said. "I will trust you in this. But we knew the risk, Haldor, and so did he. What has changed, that we would need a new plan?"

"The Commander does not know. What use is there that the Chieftain starve if they do not know?"

"I will gather the men, but we must trust _him_ as well, Haldor."

Haldor said nothing, and Taddal turned to do his task. Haldor did not want to face the Chieftain alone and lingered a moment. When he did return, he saw that Belith still sat beside Aragorn, though Badhor had withdrawn a little. Suddenly Haldor wished Aragorn had been alone. He had not asked for this place, but to take it when Belith was there…

_Do not think about it._

Worn and haggard, Aragorn sat propped up against the wall. His eyes were shut and Haldor wondered if he had fallen asleep, but he spoke when Haldor squatted down before him.

"Not even Halbarad ignored me, _Captain_." The title was an accusation between them. At the tone, Belith flinched and hunched in on himself. Aragorn did not seem to notice.

"A week, and all that happens is that you grow weaker. My Lord, I think new counsel is needed."

"Not tonight."

Haldor was close enough to see that Aragorn shook. Sweat glistened on his forehead and his face was pale and drawn with pain. He looked worse than on that night a week ago. _The men must never know,_ he had thought then. Now… now they would.

"Lord," he kept his voice soft, "tomorrow will be worse."

Aragorn gritted his teeth, and Belith was there, accusing Haldor without words.

"Soon," Haldor insisted, though he cringed to do it, "you will not be able to stand, or summon any strength at all. If not tonight, it will never happen. It will be too late."

Before Aragon could reply, they were interrupted.

"Chieftain, the men are here."

Torchlight fell on the wall and floor beside Aragorn, lighting Belith's face but his was shaded by Haldor. Haldor turned and rose to speak to the men, but the Chieftain spoke before him.

"Take your seats, and let each man speak his mind."

The formal words of Counsel, spoken at the gathering of the Eldest of the Dúnedain. Few were the times Haldor had heard them, only when counsel had been called for his patrol. This time he called it, against Aragorn's will. Haldor hesitated to turn back, not knowing what he would see, but when he did, the Chieftain sat there. Still pale, with sweat on his brow, but steady and strong. His eyes were stern, and Haldor no longer saw him tremble. This Chieftain looked ready to fight, despite his wounds.

The council was short. Few would speak against the Chieftain, though few, too, would gainsay Haldor's words. They kept silent, leaving it to Haldor to voice their concerns. Aragorn listened in silence.

"Who else will speak?" he asked, but none answered. He looked around the ring of men, and sighed. "You have trusted me in battle, and in the long years of waiting. Did I lose your trust in the battle before the Gate?"

Taddal moved, as if to speak, but it was Durion who answered, though he was barely come to manhood. If they had still been in the North, he would not yet have earned a place to speak, but the mine wrought many changes.

"I was afraid," he said. "Before, in the mine, I was afraid."

"Durion—"

"No, Haldor," Durion said, and his voice was firm. "I know you, all of you, try to protect me. Shelter me, as if any safety can be had." He turned to the Chieftain. "I was afraid, before you came, Chieftain. I knew, I still know, that you are a prisoner as well as we, that nothing really has changed. But still it has. I was not afraid; not even when the Orc took you away did the fear return. But when every night you hide from us, the fear comes back. Our trust, Chieftain, has not wavered, but you no longer trust us to stand with you. You send us away to fight alone, and leave us to the dark, and to the fear whispering in the shadows."

Aragorn did not answer at once. The flickering light cast strange shadows over his face, the bones stark against the hollow of his eyes and cheeks. Then, before their eyes, he seemed to shrink, rigid strength giving way to something else. In other men, they might have called it weakness.

"This battle is not like any other," he said, and weariness tingled his words. "In this battle, I must let myself be beaten to win."

"We do not know the rules of this fight," Taddal spoke at last. "Tell us: are you winning? The Orc is pounding hard."

His words pulled a smile from Aragorn. "I am gaining ground. Yes, I am weakening fast, but the commander cannot ignore me much longer. Sauron does not want me dead." He stuttered on the name.

"So you keep saying, but Chieftain, how long will it go on?" There was no need for Haldor to repeat what had been said, but his worry would not be silenced. "Even in this fight, there will be no victory if you are dead, and the Enemy is in his Tower. The Orc is here. A week has passed, and nothing has changed. If one weapon has proven useless, another must be tried."

"Even my death would be a victory," Aragorn answered, "for it would thwart Sauron's plans." He paused, and his voice softened. "I do not seek death, but in this fight my death is my weapon. I cannot make the threat idle, or I will indeed be without power: unless Apam sees that my resolve is firm, I will lose. Even Gorgol cannot risk to have my death on his hand."

"I do not ask you to give up your resolve," Haldor said. "But soon you will be unable to stand. Is there no other way to gain the Commander's attention?"

"Do you know any?"

"Several," Angbor broke in. He cradled his right hand against his chest, crooked and still unhealed. "None of them better."

The Chieftain's question had loosened the tongue of the Rangers. Badhor spoke, giving his advice: "One of us could do it. Go to one of the guards. Pretend to squeal."

"Or we cold just make it better known in this cave," Taddal suggested. "The spy is still here, we all suspect it. Let him serve us, this once."

"Perhaps." Aragorn spoke the word as if he did not want to. "But I am loth to bend to Captain Gorgol. Should I stop…" He shook his head. "Not yet. We can try to get words to Commander Apam other ways, but I will not bend. This battle has not been fought to its end."

The Dúnedain nodded, and Aragorn closed his eyes and rested against the wall. Soft rustling of clothes followed, and when he opened them again, only Haldor remained.

"I have heard all your objections, Haldor, but I will hear them no longer. Not tonight. I need sleep."

"I would have you sleep for a week, or more," Haldor replied, "if only I could make it so. But tell me, Aragorn, Lord of the Dúnedain: why you keep fighting with a broken blade."

"Because I have no other."

…

_"Beloved,_

_The days grow shorter, though never as short as once your people were used to, if the old tales are true. I used to wonder what the stars would be like in the North, and a part of me mourned when my brother was given the task to seek Imladis. I did not mourn his leaving, nor the loss of any glory that quest could have given, though my father accused my of it. I did not dissuade him from that thought, for I guessed the truth would wake his scorn. I grieved because my heart told me I would never see the Northern skies if I did not go then. Never see the brightness of the tales, or breathe the clear, crisp air which gave birth to the thundering hooves of the Éotheod._

_Would you return there if you could, beloved? Would your brother leave the rolling grass of Rohan and return North? Though the Elves have fallen, rumours tell that the North have not bowed. What roaming remainders of our Northern kind is still left, have not surrendered to the Enemy, but keep hidden in the wilderness. They brought us our King, though their kingdom fell long ago; now they remain free, and we have fallen with our King. With them, perhaps, beloved, you could be safe._

_But I fear it is my wishes which speak. The world holds no safety, whether North or South. Only in the forbidden West. The rain fall heavy, and the sky is grey."_

…

Sleep clung to Aragorn's eyes and mind. He heard Haldor's voice, and knew it, but this morning he was unable to rouse himself. He felt hands turn him and a body support him so that he was half sitting, but still he could not open his eyes or answer Haldor's calls. Something cold and wet touched his lips, and it took him a moment to understand that it was water. He let it wet his tongue, but was too weary to drink. Haldor spoke again.

Forcing his eyes open took all the will Aragorn had left. Speaking was yet beyond him. His mind cleared, but his will, which always had been strong enough for him to press on, no matter how far the road or how long the fight, could not command his body to rise. But for the shoulder, he was unhurt, and still he could not rise. If he had not been so tired, it would have frightened him.

"Aragorn!"

"I…" He tried to lift himself, but fell back, worse than last night. Then, he had been able to summon the strength to talk to his men. Above him, Haldor's face hardened.

"Go back to sleep."

"The guards…" But Aragorn's protest was without power.

"You have been beaten to the ground, Aragorn. Soon we will know what victory it will be. Rest until then."

Aragorn could do little else. Haldor helped him drink. He could hear the men moving outside. Watched as Haldor laid him down again, watched him leave with the men, speaking to them too low for Aragorn to hear. A torch burned beside him, to keep the darkness at bay.

_He could not move._

He could not move, and the dark crept closer. The cave gathered by the door, and he was left behind to the darkness. Alone. Still he could hear them, but soon the guards would come. Soon silence would be left. Silence and the dark. And Aragorn was too tired to act on his fear.

Muffled, the sound of the guards' shouting reached him. Their voices grew louder, and then he heard feet, iron-shod, draw near. Light followed, and they reached him. Cursing and shouting at him to rise. He could no more rise for them than for Haldor's gentler prodding.

Hands, claw-like, grabbed him and lifted him up. Pain flared in his shoulder; the guards gave no consideration to torn muscles or sinews. He groaned, but they payed it no heed. Out they dragged him, past his Rangers calling, past Faron and his men who stood silent. One victory, however small. Aragorn clung to that thought, through the tunnels and all the way to the Orc.

…

From the private records of Commander Apam:

_"The hostage Elessar has broken at last, though I fear his stubbornness has wrought him more harm than I should have allowed. He has made no demands today, but his body has no strength left. Captain Gorgol has neglected to tell me how weakened he has been in this short time; he is, at the moment, too weak to stand. When the moment came where I could have him brought before me without conceding any victory to him, he is without sense!_

_I feel the loss of our healer more keenly now than I ever have, but though I have beseeched the Great Lord — may His mercy ever bless us — to spare me one, I have received no answer yet. The war, I understand, is still not fought to the end, for the barbarous Northmen will not surrender though they have lost, and few healers can be spared from the soldiers. I have been warned not to let the Elven slaves talk with the other workers, lest they work their magic on them, and I do not yet know who among the Men might know something of healing. The troublesome Dwarf, however, might finally prove to be of use: the Captain tells me he tends their wounded. Let him earn his keep."_

_…_

Few accounts have been preserved of what the Dwarven slaves endured under the Shadow. Men and Elves had their own torments to remember and few thought to preserve the tales of Dwarves. Among themselves, I have no doubt, the Dwarves remember, but they do not speak of it to others. Even I, who has been fortunate to know the people of the Glittering Caves, have only been told a few of their tales. But in the few whispers which have escaped their secrecy, one name is repeated: that of the Dwarf Lit. A legend, even among Dúrin's children, though not of their kin. This Lit was a healer, and a leader to the Dwarven slaves, and it is my belief that it was the same Lit whom Apam sent to tend the King.

Time fell long for the King in the darkness, yet only a short time passed before the guards returned with the Dwarf. The King was barely aware through most of it, and when he fully woke, the cell was quiet. A single lamp burned, casting shadows on the floor when Aragorn stirred. Cold metal bit into his throat and made it difficult to turn his head.

"Lay still, Ranger," a voice spoke from behind him. "Do not aggravate your shoulder."

The voice sounded like gravel: heavy with stone, unlike both the voices of the Orcs and of the Mannish guards. Aragorn started, despite the warning, but stopped his movement at once.

"Who…?"

The owner of the voice moved into view, carrying the lamp. For a moment, Aragorn blinked against the light, and he saw it was the Dwarf he had seen caged seven days ago.

"The Orc seemed to care about your health, Ranger," the Dwarf said. "I know something of healing."

"How did you know I was a Ranger? The captain don't call me by that name."

"No, he calls you _tark_ , but you look like one of them, and from what I have heard, few but the Rangers up North would manage to anger an orc so. Stubborn as a rock, I've heard, and as true."

The Dwarf had short, thick hands, strong but careful. Aragorn was reminded of the hands of Gimli, though these were slimmer. They felt along his shoulder-joint with light touches and Aragorn lay still while they worked.

"Where are you from, Dwarf, since you know us by sight? And when were you taken? Few tidings have reached us: I fought in the South, and left the North while winter reigned."

"My people traded with yours, Ranger: I hail from the Blue Mountains. Halbarad, your leader, drove a hard bargain, but his words always held true, but for the end."

Aragorn winced at hearing his kinsman's name, but said nothing of it. "The Dwarves here, are they all your people? When did the Blue Mountain fall?"

"Near Midsummer. We sent for the Rangers, calling on their friendship for help, but they never showed. Whether they had fallen before us, or whether the messengers never reached Halbarad, I do not know. Those not killed, were sent here, but not all are of my people."

"Halbarad fell before Minas Tirith," Aragorn said. "He led those of my people who could be found: they came to my aid, and to fight under my banner. I do not know what has come of those who stayed behind. We are a scattered people, and few remain. This you must know."

"Scattered and secret," the Dwarf answered. "Long we thought Halbarad was your chieftain, but that was never so." The hands grew heavier, and Aragorn hissed. "Why did the Enemy mark you?" A finger tapped on the burn-mark.

"Can you not guess? The others saw to you as they would a leader. Sauron could not know I was alive, not until the time of secrecy was past. My father was Arathorn, son of Arador, from father to son the descended of Isildur. But who are you? I trusted Halbarad to trade on my behalf, but the leader of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains I have met. You are not him."

"My husband is dead," the Dwarf answered. "I am Lit, and my people see to him in my place."

At this Aragorn stared in wonder, his own plight for a moment forgotten.

"We both have secrets to hide, King of Men," Lit said.

"Mine are secret no longer, Lady," Aragorn answered, "but I will not betray yours."

"See that you don't," she answered. "Not even by the courtesy of your tongue."

"I shall not. But the guards would take my words as the ravings of fever dreams. They would not believe it, even if they were told outright."

"Even so."

Aragorn nodded. He closed his eyes, weary still, but Lit would not let him rest. Her questions turned to the ills of his body, and she would not believe him when he said he bore no other hurt than the shoulder.

"The Orc wanted you on your feet quickly, but you are weaker than a disjointed shoulder would account for," she said. "Tell me, what else ails you?"

"Weariness, nothing more."

"No, at least one more thing: hunger."

Aragorn did not answer, and Lit scowled at him.

"I can see the hunger in your face and smell it on your breath. Your eyes burn, sunken in their sockets, and even your bones look hollow. Shall I go on?"

Aragorn still did not answer.

"When did you last eat?"

At first Aragorn would not answer Lit's questions, and when he did, it was the Dwarf who stared at him in wonder. But she did not ask the guards for food, and they did not think to give it. When the lamp burned out, she stayed close in the dark, telling him what tidings she knew from the North. No tidings had come from across the Misty Mountains and of fate of the Shire she knew nothing, yet she knew a little of Dáin's people, for two of the dwarves trapped in the mine, hailed from the Lonely Mountain. The tidings were slim, for they had been captured even before the last battle, during the Battle of Dale when Dáin fell.

"Erebor is besieged, but no other tidings have we heard since then. It happened on the 17th of March."

"And no other of Dúrin's folk are held with you?" In the dark Aragorn dared ask. "Have any of you seen or heard tidings of Gimli, Glóin's son?"

"What is he to you?"

The knowledge of her secret let him answer. "We travelled far together, and he fought with me at the last. But I know not what fate he suffered in our defeat; we did not fight alongside each other. He was not among those who escaped the field."

But Lit had heard nothing. "I can ask," she said, "but I may not get a chance to pass any tidings to you."

She would not, but the fate of Gimli would not become known to anyone for years to come, and no hint of it reached his friends until the very end. For those outside the Land of Shadow, captives and fallen alike were though dead, but for the few hostages the Dark Lord used for his plans. And the tidings his prisoners heard, they come across by chance. It was easier to think them dead, the people they missed, but the King found this harder than most. Not knowing, he could not untangle the tapestry of lies and truths the Enemy wove him.

…

When the guards understood that Lit could do no more to hasten the King's return to strength, Aragorn was left alone in the cell. He was given water, and the half of an old loaf of bread was set beside him. He did not touch it at first, but after he had slept and woken once, the smell — stale though the bread was — distracted him. He threw it out of reach for his chains, lest his will would prove too frail in his weakness.

For two days he stayed in the cell, sleeping. In his weariness, the dark and stillness brought no memories, until the second night. When Gorgol came, and found that the King again could stand, Aragorn was glad to leave.

…

"You have lost weight."

Aragorn was kneeling — always kneeling — in front of the commander. Kneeling did not come easy. Not in Mordor. No practice could make it so.

"Should I be flattered, that you would concern yourself with my weight?"

He had little left but his words, and those he would not surrender, despite the captain's displeasure.

_Breathe in, breathe out_.

"All the workers are my concern."

The commander's voice was calm. He never showed any sign of anger, but then he had the Orc to be angry for him.

"All your concerns are too thin. Food is scarce; we cannot grow or gather any in the caves. There is only what you give us. No man grew fat on work alone."

It was the wrong answer, even if it was true.

"You accuse me of negligence, Elessar?"

"Yes."

The commander remained seated, but he leaned forward in his chair, closer to Aragorn. "Since your coming, some have _gained_ weight."

"For one to gain, four must loose," Aragorn replied. "I am not Faron."

"You are their king."

Aragorn did not answer at once. The commander did not know. Or understand. Was the spy too far from him, that he had not known what to tell, or did the commander play some game?

"I am not Faron," he repeated, "to take food from my men."

"Your men, Captain Gorgol tells me, can easily secure enough food for both you and them."

Aragorn shook his head. "You said it: I am their king, and not for the North alone."

Apam did not answer that claim at first. He studied Aragorn's face in silence before he rose and turned to his desk. Parchments lay strewn across it — never had Aragorn seen so much paperwork as among the Enemy's men — and a large book lay open in the midst of it. Sheets of loose parchments surrounded it. The commander took one, and began to write.

Aragorn stayed silent. The scratch of the pen and the breath of three people were the only sounds. Captain Gorgol's breath heavy and eager, his own measured with false calmness. The commander's could hardly be heard.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Aragorn could not see what the commander wrote. Would his words be reported back to the Sauron? Aragorn could not unsay them now.

"Do you consider the Horse-people your subjects as well, Elessar?"

The commander did not look up from his writing.

"What?"

Aragorn needed time to see the trap behind the question, but he was surprised by it. That lent truth to his voice.

"Not all the workers are from Gondor; you have no reason to care for those who are not your subjects."

"Éomer king is a brother to me. He would care for mine, and so I will care for his: his men, too, are under my protection."

The scratching continued.

Aragorn waited while the commander wrote. The captain waited too: Aragorn was not supposed to speak, then. He said nothing, and the silence stretched until the commander put down his pen and looked up.

"You are to eat more."

_Breathe in, breathe out._

"Not until there is enough for all."

"We have ways to make you."

Aragorn knew. He had lived through more than threats before. Though he had no wish to repeat it, he also knew they could not truly force him. Not if he could hold strong.

Apam could see his decision. "It would be better for you, and your men, if we do not have to retort to those ways."

"And how would my men benefit?"

"You already know, Elessar." Apam paused, but Aragorn did not answer. Something must have shown in his face, for Apam sighed, and continued. "I had hoped you would show greater sense, Elessar. You will have the chance to change your mind before the end of the day."

The commander nodded, and the Orc tightened his hold. Aragorn could not see Gorgol's face, but he could guess his smile.

"Did I not say that you should not feel too safe, _tark_?" he whispered. Aragorn ignored him, though it was no real victory to be had. In the corner stood the cage.

...

He could not move.

_Breathe in —_

The space was too small; _he could not move_.

— _breathe out._

The commander did not speak to him, and Aragorn could not. Not in the dark. Not with the memory of the fear seeping out, tangling with his being, seeking entrance to his mind. _No!_ he had lived through the fear; he could live through the memories.

In the end they released him. It was no better.

The commander still said nothing. He sat writing at his desk as if he did not hear the Orc's anger, or Aragorn resist. He did not even look up. Not until Aragorn again was kneeling as before, the captain holding him. This time, Aragorn guessed, he would have fallen without the Orc's hands.

"Have you considered your actions?"

Aragorn met his eyes. "I but respond to yours." The commander was the first to turn away, back to his papers.

"Take him back."

...

From the private writings of Commander Apam:

_"Our first attempt to make the Hostage Elessar eat, failed. From what I could glean from his words, and what my informers have said, he has not eaten in nine days. While it seems unlikely that he would grow so thin in little more than a week, I also find it hard to believe that one who has been king, would have starved himself willingly for longer. Soon, I believe — and Captain Gorgol with me — Elessar will cave to his body. He demands — even the thought of a hostage making demands are laughable, but it shows what high opinion Elessar have of himself — that the allowance of food to all the workers are increased, and refuse to eat until I comply. Of all the actions I envisioned Elessar would try, this I did not expect. That he has refused food for so long, is impressive given his former standing, yet I see not what good it will do him. In the end, all men must eat._

_Yet, if Elessar refuses tomorrow, we must use stronger measures."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the most hardy of any living Man — paraphsed from LotR, App A, The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen ("Thus he became at last the most hardy of living Men")
> 
> A/N:   
> I have not had this chapter proofread by a beta yet, but hope I have been able to weed out most mistakes. Let me know if there are any trouble with this chapter: I have struggled with it far more than I expected I would. I am sorry that my updates are slow, but hope to get back to monthly updates eventually.  
> A great thanks to everyone who has not abandoned the story in the wait, or has re-found it, or stumbled on it for the first time: To see that my story is read, is a great inspiration for me.


	14. Promises to keep

" _Éowyn, I have feared using your name, but in this dreary time of year, I find myself longing for the sound of it. Even writing out your name, Éowyn, reminds me of the days we had together. The days where hope was more than a desperate wish. I remember the light and the sun, the last happiness before nightfall. I did not know if you loved me then, but I was happy to be near you and see you heal._

_Would that I had gone with you. I do not know what Gondor would suffer without me, but in the November rains it seems to me that I have done little good by staying._

_Perhaps the King would have done better, after all."_

…

His feet could not bear him; the orcs had to drag him back. Thrown into the cell, Aragorn had no time to gather himself before hands began to drag him up again. Strange hands. He groaned at an unexpected pull on his bad shoulder.

"Faron wanna word."

Silver-tongued, like the guards, but the hands hesitated where the orcs had not. Aragorn mustered enough strength to make his gaze stern, and the two men drew further back. Faron's men they might be, but they were Men of Gondor still. The line of Elendil was not forgotten.

"Lord." The title came as if forced from his lip. The man blushed a little and looked down. Aragorn did not know his name, but beside him stood Halthar, Faron's closest, who glared at him.

The sling Lit had made still hung around Aragorn's neck. He slipped his left arm into it, thankful that the shoulder still held. Then he held up his right arm for them to help him up.

"I will allow it," he said, and let them drag him to his feet. His legs would still not hold him and they had to support him. Halthar growled, but his hands were more hesitant than his words. The other man refused to look at Aragorn again. They brought him to the corner of the cave Faron had taken as his own.

Faron was alone, and the cave, Aragorn noticed, was empty; none of the others were back from work. Faron sat on a roughly hewn outcrop of the wall, which served him as a chair. Another was hewn beside it.

"Will you sit, Elessar?" Faron asked. He gestured to the chair. "I have not had the opportunity to speak with you: your Haldor is protective."

The men dumped Aragorn on the outcrop. He remained seated; he still did not trust his legs to hold. If Faron guessed, he said nothing. He just waved the two men away.

"Haldor has his reasons." Aragorn waited for Faron to voice his purpose.

"That he has," Faron agreed. "Though he should see to his own manners before accusing mine. Did he tell you the story?"

Aragorn stayed calm. It helped that Faron's corner was not a smaller cave, like the Rangers'. "I have never had reason to mistrust him. Are you saying that my men would not tell me the truth?"

"How would you know, Elessar?"

Aragorn held his eyes, and the other man turned away quickly.

"He can hold my gaze longer than you, Faron. Why should I trust your tale over his?"

Faron did not try to meet his eyes again. "That means little," he answered. "Haldor does not know. You and your Rangers cannot know."

"What can we not know?" On Aragorn's breast the Eye was an angry scar, not fully healed. His face was sunken and thin, but his eyes burned still. There were red marks on his wrists.

"The high and mighty king," Faron spat. "When, before now, have you ever known hardship?"

"Most of my life," Aragorn answered. "And my years have been long. Did you want to compare griefs? It is useless, and here more than any other place."

Faron did not answer at once. He fiddled with his hands — they were empty but that did not stop him. Aragorn looked at him closer, trying to read not only his mood, but his story.

"You bring nothing but bad luck,  _Sire_ , and you are hardly worth the risk.  _You_  the guards spare, and lay the burden on us."

"This you still believe?" Aragorn's shoulder smarted still, even with the sling to relieve it.

"Long due," Faron spat. "Captain Gorgol has been soft on you since you came, and harder on the rest of us because of it. It is always so: the high and mighty need fear no loss, even in defeat, while us poor soldiers pay the price of their quarrelling.  _They_  will be ransomed, but we…?"

"Do you wish to count my scars, Faron? Would you compare them? Even before our defeat, mine could have outnumbered yours. Has no rumour but my lineage reached your ears, or have you not listened?" Aragorn's eyes did not leave him.

"I've seen the brand of the Eye you so readily flaunt," Faron sneered. He regarded the king, but did not meet his eyes. Aragorn kept firm under his scrutiny; he had endured worse than Faron.

"What do you want, Faron?"

"You are bad luck, Elessar," Faron answered. "Even with the fool Belith in charge food was never so scarce."

"Yet you suffer less from it than most."

"And you are given days to rest and stuff your face."

Aragorn froze. "Is that the tale the guards have spun?"

"I needed no tale: your shirt speaks loudly. I had not thought a  _king_  would eat so sloppy."

Aragorn plucked at his shirt, which was damp and soiled down the front. He shook his head. "You would trust the words of  _orcs_?"

Faron fell silent. His gaze flickered, but for a moment it met Aragorn's, and he shook his head. "When we first came," he said, "those Rangers of yours tried to lord it over us. As if they knew how to survive here. I saw quickly enough that they would just make it harder: Captain Gorgol hated them, and as long as they ruled he would never give us enough. It wasn't until I was able to gather my boys around me and win the captain's favour, that our lot improved. It was enough, until you came."

"No," Aragorn answered. "Not even before I came; it was only enough for some. Among your own men there are those that go hungry. I have seen it, clear as day: their hunger is not recent."

"There is no sense in letting all grow weak from lack of food. None would be able to work hard enough to earn us any, and then even less food would we have. We would all die, just a bit slower."

Aragorn held him with his eyes and let the silence speak.

"You accuse me?" Faron's voice was shrill. He paused, and when he continued his voice was deeper, full of suppressed anger. "You, who know nothing of hunger and hardship, accuse me? When I starved in the fields of Dol Amroth, where was the knights' honour then? When did they share their food? And you,  _Elfstone_ ," he spat the name, "have you not lived well fed throughout your life? Have you not seen hunger, and still gone full to bed?"

"I have seen hunger and not shared it," Aragorn answered.

"You, who do not think it right to save some, rather than to let all starve?"

"Sometimes it is."

Faron fell silent. He stared at Aragorn, his anger still clear to be read in his face, but his words, for a time, failing him.

"Sometimes," Aragorn repeated, "the strong need to stay strong, even if it means the weak will have less: for if the strong falter, who will then be left to save the weak? Yes, I have eaten while others starved, for only by the strength of my arm could I keep them safe. But in this place, what good is strength? Tell me, Faron: who have you saved by staying strong? Can you keep the guards from beating whom they please?"

"My men stay safe," Faron answered.

"All of them?"

"We protect our own."

"And still I see bruises among your men. I see them grow thin."

"We keep the strong strong."

"I would keep all my men strong," Aragorn said.

Anger broke Faron's calm. "Your Rangers  _are_  strong! They keep to themselves, and would have let all of us suffer for their strength. For their reckless pride."

"They alone are not my men: I claim you all."

"Who put the crown upon  _your_  head?"

"The Steward," Aragorn answered. "Faramir, son of Denethor of the house of Húrin put the crown upon my head, at the agreement of the Council of Gondor."

Faron narrowed his eyes. "Your lies might convince Thalion, the fool, but not me. The Enemy would never have let it happen."

"I have told neither Thalion, nor any of my Rangers of this." Aragorn's voice was low, but laced with steel and anger. "Sauron meant to make a mockery of me, to taunt all of Gondor. But I will not let him win any victory I may still hold from him. Mockery might be his intent, but I am the heir of Elendil, and my claim is just. Both North and South are mine to protect, by my life or death, as long as it is within my power. And protect I will: my Rangers, you and your men, and every living man within this cell."

Faron said nothing for a while. His eyes flickered over Aragorn, as if he sought to read his heart and glean the truth, but still he would not meet Aragorn's eyes. "What do you know," he asked at last, "of starvation?"

"More than you think." For one moment, Aragorn lowered his mask, showing a glimpse of what he had let few others see. Faron drew back.

"You chose to starve yourself." Faron did not ask. "For how long? A week? It is not the same as when there is no choice."

"That is true, in part." Aragorn kept his voice calm. "I have starved without choice before, and some things stay the same. My body weakens, my mind is clouded with thoughts of food, or weighed with sleep, and already I can feel that it begins to fail."

"There are quicker deaths. The mine is full of them."

Aragorn shook his head. "Not for me."

"I would be glad to help."

"No," Aragorn said. "You would not: you would regret it dearly, even if the Dúnedain would let me go. Sauron marked me, and not for mercy. But you are not here to offer me escape in death. The commander is using you in some way. Do you know why?"

Faron stopped his fiddling. He lifted his head to met Aragorn's eyes.

"Captain Gorgol fetched me. He said to talk to you. He wished…"

"For your men to beat me? He would push you in front of him, to take any blame for my injuries?"

"No, not that."

"Then what?"

"He asked if I had seen you eat."

Aragorn nodded. "You are his eyes."

"No. I do what I need, but I have never given the guards any news of what happens when they bring us back from work. The Orc never asked. Not before today."

"Do you know who the Captain asked, before today?"

"Ask Thalion." Faron's voice was full of hate and scorn whenever he spoke Thalion's name.

Aragorn let it lie. "What will you tell the Captain?"

"I can't lie. He will know, and it will be worse for us all."

"I do not wish you to. Let him know that I do not eat. Let him know for how long. Let him know that my will is firm."

Faron met his eyes for a moment. "Your will is set." He sounded as if he did not know whether to be awed or angry. "You will ruin us: the Captain will not be happy. When Gorgol is unhappy, we suffer."

"I have tested the force of his hand; it is not as strong as you think. You are right: all of you might suffer until the Commander yields, but I think my Rangers will bear the brunt."

"Captain Gorgol will never yield. He will kill us all before he yields."

"I am not dealing with Gorgol, but with Apam. Apam has a mine to run. And orders which Gorgol does not know. Sauron has already tried to use those I love against me." Aragorn closed his eyes and his fists clenched until the knuckles were white. Then his breath rushed out and he opened his eyes. "I did not yield. Apam will not waste his workers." His voice was calm where his heart was not.

"The Commander sits behind his desk. He seldom comes down to see how we work and die. No, it is the Captain we should worry about."

"My meeting was with the Commander today, and it is my guess that I will see him tomorrow, and the all the days after, until the next ration of food comes. Both Apam and his Orc fears their Master; I have some power to wield against them yet. The Captain is not my worry."

Faron fell silent again.

"What do you propose, Elfstone?" And for once he spoke the name without scorn.

Aragorn smiled. The cave was mostly dark, but Faron had lit torches in his corner. The flames flickered and played across their faces, and glittered in Aragorn's eye. His smile made Faron pause.

"I'll make a Thalion of you yet. The Lord of Dor-lómin bore the name with honour."

Faron narrowed his eyes. "I know but one of that name, and he's no lord."

"Neither are you, and not even a year ago, few knew me to bear any title, unless they gave me that of ruffian. But do not fear, I will not ask much, for now. Tell Gorgol the truth of my eating."

"And if he asks aught else?"

"Tell no harmful lie, nor harmful truths," Aragorn answered. He stood. His legs were weak, and he had to lean on the wall for support, though he tried to hide it. "The others will soon return. My Rangers will ... misunderstand if they see me here. Unless there is more we need to discuss…?" He let the question linger, but Faron shook his head.

"One thing," he asked before Aragorn turned to leave.

"Yes?"

"You can barely stand, and it is not weariness from the day's work."

"It is," answered Aragorn. "I have endured long negotiations this day."

"Kingly work?" Faron's voice bore not the snarl Aragorn expected.

"I do not know what you call  _kingly_ , but yes. Do you know what it means to lead?"

"I get to give orders. All my life I have followed them, and now, here, I get to give them at last. I would have laughed had anyone told me that the victory of the Dark Lord would bring me this."

Aragorn looked around the dark cave. "Not quite a kingdom," he said. "The kings of old would not fight your claim to it."

"You do."

Aragorn smiled, but his eyes glittered with danger, not mirth. "You do not lead, you bully. Take care lest those you would lead, stop following."

"I could say the same. Haldor might not question you, but Thalion...? His father should have given him a different name." The snarl was back.

"He speaks likewise of you, Faron. Do not think I judge a man on another's word; I judge a man on his deeds, and what I read in his heart. I will watch you, as you watch me. Gorgol might go to you, but when you are ready, come to me. I do not abandon those I take under my protection. Not for as long as I have any protection left to give."

Faron stared at him, wavering for a moment. Then he spat.

Aragorn said nothing in answer, but turned and left without further words. Or he would, but his body betrayed him and he stumbled.

"So much for staying strong, Elfstone."

"My hope lies not in strength."

Aragorn held on to the wall, waiting for the spots to clear. His head was too light, and he could no longer hide it. Faron called, but Aragorn paid no attention to his words. He startled when hands wrapped around his arm, steadying him.

"I said: You seem to be in need of borrowing the strength of my men,  _sire_." Faron's voice. It broke through the dizziness, more than a little smug. "I'll wait for you to ask my protection — you have none to offer."

Aragorn shook his head, too weary to argue further. "I am the heir of Isildur. There is no safety for me in Mordor."

Faron huffed at his words, but said no more. Aragorn left, steadied by strange hands. It was not until he was helped down on the floor of the Rangers' cave and the man tarried to light one of their torches, that Aragorn thought to ask for his name.

"My father named me Dúndir, lord."

Aragorn looked up at him. He was tall, like all Men of Gondor, with the look of Númenór about him, but his face was gaunt and his hair hung limp and matted. The torch spluttered and cast its light on his features. One eye bore the pale green of an old bruise.

"How long have you followed him, Dúndir?"

"Soon it might be long enough," Dúndir answered.

"Long enough for what?"

"To be safe from his men, lord. And to not be put by the door for the orcs to choose when they come for their sport."

Dúndir did not look at Aragorn. His head was turned to the side and he stared at the floor, lingering as if torn between hope and fear. Aragorn could not say which, and he did not ask. He waited, and Dúndir squirmed in the silence.

"Can you offer better?"

Had it been another day, Aragorn would have had strength to spare for the reading of his heart. Now he closed his eyes and sighed. "You must choose what your courage allows." His right hand splayed against the bare rock beside the little straw they had. The stone was silent, but for the ever distant thuds of hammers and hacking of picks. Aragorn shifted to let his left arm rest better in its sling.

"I have no strength for unasked questions, Dúndir," he said. "Ask Taddal, if he would speak with you, or Thalion if you find it easier. For now I must rest; Faron has taxed my patience already, and the Dúnedain will not ask if they find you here."

"I can be of help, lord, if you will protect me."

But Aragorn had no strength left to answer, though he saw, as if through the mist of sleep, Dúndir's need. He nodded, but weariness overcame him. He did not notice Dúndir leaving, nor the raised voices of Faron and Halthar speaking freely in the absence of all else. He slept, and in his sleep he dreamed of running, and of the clear stars of the Northern sky. Brief was the dream, but when he woke from it, the weariness had left his mind, if not his body.

…

_"Éowyn, each day the pressure from the Enemy grows stronger. Little things, and laws of what seems like little consequence, and yet I can see all too clearly what will come of Gondor, and of me. Now, more than ever, I wish I had come with you. I never loved the sword for its brightness; unlike the brave sons of Eorl I could never sing in battle. But even so, the battle you and your brother fight are cleaner, for all the mud of the field, than that which I face in my chambers behind the white walls of Minas Tirith. Oh, to pitch the strength of my body against my foe, even one so far beyond it, rather than this slow wearing of my will._

_In this, two thoughts comfort me. The thought of you, beloved, still out of reach of the Enemy's grasp. And the memory of my king, crowned despite despair and mockery. Even now echoes of the rumours reach me, the whispers the people of Gondor cling to: our king defies the Dark Lord, even in his dungeons."_

…

Haldor worried when he came and saw his Chieftain returned at last, alone in the cave with Faron and two of his men.

"They have not harmed me," Aragorn protested. He was sitting at the back of their cave, where he usually rested, a single torch lit beside him. Though in better shape than Haldor had feared, he also looked as if a hobbit-child could push him over. His shirt was damp, but Haldor could smell no illness. His left arm hung in a sling, but he saw no blood.

"Something has happened."

"Yes." Aragorn smiled.

"Faron?"

"I have spoken with him, but Faron is of little concern, though Apam no doubt will use him. Not for what Faron thinks, but beyond that I cannot yet fully guess."

Haldor pushed the matter aside until he had seen for himself that his Chieftain bore no new hurt. He reached to ease the arm out of its sling so he could remove the shirt, but Aragorn drew back.

"Halbarad trusted me enough to tell the truth about my health," Aragorn remarked. He did not move, and refused to let Haldor remove his shirt, or touch the sling.

"You have been gone two days, Chieftain, and your arm is in a sling. I guess Halbarad had not seen you unable to rise."

"He had, and so have you."

"You had a broken leg and still you hauled yourself up by a branch. You would have managed, too, had the branch not been rotten. Two days ago nothing could make you rise."

"There is a lack of branches in this cave."

But Haldor had come to know his Chieftain well enough to see the pain mingled with the jest.

"Aragorn…"

"I speak the truth, Haldor," Aragorn said, and though his voice lost some of the jest, the mirth did not completely go away. But he rubbed his shoulder. "Though I cannot say my time has been pleasant, my body has suffered no further harm. The sling might be new, but it relieves the same hurt you tended two days ago. And I have won this skirmish: I have spoken to Apam."

That took Haldor's mind off his worry for a while. "What did he say?"

"He shares your worry for my health," Aragorn replied. "Though, despite his protestations, I doubt it is because of his sense of duty towards his prisoners, rather than his fear of his master. He would not yet consider my terms; not until he has tested the strength of my resolve. I may have beaten Gorgol, yet he was but the vanguard. The battle has just begun."

"They should both know your resolve by now, Chieftain. Is not the past week enough?"

"I don't think any of them really believe I will persist." Aragorn rubbed the base of his nose. Wearyness had crept into his voice as he spoke and the mirth was gone. He looked like a man whose joy of seeing the first signpost dwindled when he understood how long he still had left to go. But when he let his hand fall and looked up again, he spoke with the acceptance of one who knows his strength will hold, despite the long road. "Still, it is my guess that they will not wait for me to prove them wrong. My body has begun to fail and they could see it. There is little time: all of you should be prepared. Sauron knows I will not bow to threats, but they will test that resolve. My hope is that Apam will not resort to killing. I fear he will."

"Every man here is willing to die, Chieftain."

Aragorn shook his head. "The Dúnedain are. They might not begin with you."

"We know the price of battle, especially against the Enemy." Haldor reached for the sling once more, and this time Aragorn sighed and let him ease it off. Haldor tried to keep his touch gentle, but Aragorn was stiff under his hands, and removing the shirt was difficult work. The whip-welt had begun to close, and it was clean, if a little red and warm around the edges where the skin had broken. He saw no other cuts, but on Aragorn's arms and across his back there were faint bruises, as if something had been pressed into the skin. Last he unwrapped the bindings on Aragorn's shoulder. He did not recognise the bandages, but he could see they had been wrapped with more skill than his own, though now they were loose. The flesh underneath was swollen.

"You will not bend."

Aragorn was not sure whether Haldor asked or pleaded. He winced at the prodding, for the shoulder was sore and tender, though the binding had provided some protection.

"You say the Enemy knows you will not bend to threats against others." Haldor spoke like one who does not dare to ask.

"Yes."

"Who?"

Aragorn sighed, and for long he did not answer. His voice was tinted with pain when he spoke.

"Elrohir."

But he said nothing beyond that name, and Haldor sensed that even Halbarad would not have been allowed to press further. In silence he re-wrapped the shoulder.

That night the Chieftain's sleep was troubled. Haldor woke to him tossing. Before his cries grew too loud, he woke him. He sat beside him in the dark until his breathing eased and he said nothing. Around them the men slept, none awake to keep guard. Their work had been hard that day, and they did not know who might need to rest for the next day.

"Ask."

Aragorn's voice was low. Haldor did not at first hear what he said, but even when he did, he hesitated.

"I do not know what to ask, Chieftain," he said. Beside him Aragorn shuddered and Haldor stretched out to touch him. Aragorn flinched away from the touch, and Haldor withdrew. They sat for a while, side by side in the dark.

"Tell me," Haldor said at length. "I do not know what to ask, I do not know what to say, but I will listen." He could hear Aragorn breathe beside him, in and out in even, controlled breaths.

"Have you seen the cages?"

This time it was Haldor who flinched and shuddered. "I know of them," he said, and would say nothing more. Aragorn did not ask.

"Apam had one brought into his office. I…" Aragorn hesitated.

"They were made for smaller men." Haldor knew how much smaller, and the Chieftain was tall, taller than any of his men.

"Yes," Aragorn said. "Sauron" — he stumbled on the name — "sent me here with more than a mark. Apam knew." He paused again, and Haldor waited in silence.

"I could not move," Aragorn continued. "I know there are worse torments — or more painful ones — but this, it seems, is harder for me to bear. No room to move, and the darkness… the memory is evil, even among memories of evil. The fear would not let go."

"We need not sleep close," Haldor said. "There is room enough, if you need it."

"The warmth helps. And the sound of breathing. Stay."

"You did not eat."

In the dark, Haldor heard Aragorn sigh beside him.

"Faron thought I had. My shirt is soiled, and he noted it."

"I did not ask." Haldor strove to find the right words. "I know you did not."

"How?" In the dark, with the memory of the dream, Aragorn did not sound like the Chieftain Haldor had clung to for strength outside the Black Gate.

"You would not let me fret so, had you eaten. You would not be so cruel."

Aragorn snorted in the dark beside him. It was the sound of fear leaving, and for once it seemed to Haldor that he had spoken the right words.

"Thank you, Haldor. Halbarad could not have done better."

"I am sure he could have," Haldor answered.

"Halbarad  _would_  have thought me so cruel, and would have pestered me to tell the tale in full. You let me sleep first." Aragorn's voice was lighter, and mirth danced on its edges. That light did not dwindle, though his voice softened when he continued: "There are no better here, Haldor."

"There must be those less worse. You grew up in Rivendell, with the wisdom of the Elves: surely you have heard wiser words than mine."

Aragorn's clothes rustled softly. "In the dark, laughter is better than many wise words."

"Is that why they insisted on singing those silly songs the one time I was there?"

Aragorn did not answer, but he chuckled softly and shortly after he lay down. Haldor hesitated, unsure if he had gone too far. A simple "Sleep!" from Aragorn made him follow his Chieftain.

"The morning is wiser than the evening."

At the softly spoken words, Haldor put the worry from his mind. They lay back to back, and it was Aragorn's breath which first evened out in sleep.

…

Soft voices around him, a soft hand at his shoulder. Aragorn opened his eyes and saw Taddal bend over him.

"Where is Haldor?"

Warmth against his back, breathing evenly.

"Still sleeping, Chieftain," Taddal answered. "I thought I would play cock today. Can you stand?"

"I hear that question too often these days. My feet are not so old yet."

"Are they not your age then, Chieftain?" Taddal grinned. Aragorn remembered that Taddal had always been cheerful in the mornings.

He huffed. "If you ever put your mind to become a jester, you will find no employment in my court."

"You wound me, lord. It is not easy to jest before breakfast."

"A Dwarf who just saw his gold fall into the chasm under the Bridge of Khazad-dûm would find it easier to jest than you, Taddal."

"Only if he thought it would earn him said gold back." Taddal paused, and his grin softened though his mirth remained. "You should not wonder at the question, Chieftain: it is a good thing we are underground, for you look like a breath of wind would push you over."

Aragorn turned grave. "Don't," he warned.

"Forgive me, Chieftain." Taddal's mirth disappeared. "I meant no offence, nor any reproach by my words."

With more effort than he liked to show, Aragorn rose. He clasped Taddal's shoulder. "No," he said. "The fault is mine: mine was the first jest, and you but followed my lead. If any should beg forgiveness, it is I. I fear Apam will not take my appearance lightly."

"I thought you said he would not harm you."

"My fear is not for myself."

Taddal smiled. "We know, Chieftain. Do not fear for us."

"Have you seen someone tormented in your place, Taddal?"

Taddal hesitated. The light was low in the cave, but beside them on the wall was a torch-stand where a new torch burned. Taddal shook his head, and his eyes flickered. "I have seen the Orcs play," he said, "and been unable to stop them."

"It is worse when they tell you that you can." Aragorn's eyes were dark and his fingers dug into the flesh of Taddal's shoulder. "Even when you do not believe them, there is always the nagging guilt, and the wish they rather torment you."

Taddal was silent for a moment. "If they pick me," he said, "know that my wish is the same. Do not watch if you can help it."

Aragorn looked at him to gauge his meaning. "Why?" he asked. "For my sake or yours?"

"Both," Taddal answered. "I do not think I could bear having you watch me, and I do not wish you the pain. Would you have us watch you?"

"For my own sake, yes," Aragorn answered. "As long as you remained unbroken by it."

"Are you sure?" Taddal did not sound convinced. "Do we not then play into their hands? Will they not want you to watch, to be watched?"

"Fight their will whatever way we can? Is that what you would have me do?"

"I would deny them what victory I can," Taddal answered. "Small and petty though it is: refuse to do what they wish."

"We do their bidding every day we work in this mine, Taddal. We are slaves, and we can do what task they put us to, or we can die; those are our choices, and not even the choice of life or death is fully ours. Do you think the guards would suffer any reprimand if they killed one of us?" The jest in Aragorn's voice was long gone, though it held no note of despair, either: his voice held no emotion Taddal could discern.

"You they dare not kill."

Aragorn nodded. "True, and still I have as little choice as you."

Around them the cave was silent, though most were awake, readying themselves for the day. There was little enough to do: no washing or dressing — the cave was too cold to sleep without the comfort of their clothes — but they feared to be caught sleeping by the guards. Badhor hid away the food they had left and Angbor stood by the opening, speaking softly with someone outside. Beside them Haldor still slept, but the other Rangers were listening. Aragorn could see it: they were all too busy looking everywhere but at him and Taddal.

"Taddal," he said. "I have already been on both sides of this torment. Whatever I do, they will twist it, and so I do what I can to endure. I cannot endure alone, this I know."

"None of us can," Taddal answered.

…

Aragorn stood before the door when it opened, but neither he nor the guards said anything. Not until they had been taken to eat. Aragorn collected his food, and the small orc-guard followed him, watching his every move.

"Grown soft, 'ave we,  _tark_ -king?" it spat. "Should've known you couldn't keep your fast long."

Aragorn looked at it, and it scuttled back a few steps. "Food should not be wasted," he replied before he turned and walked back towards the tables. On his way, he passed a young man who used to hang around Faron's men. Too weak for them to want him, yet he tried, and was scorned. His eyes burned with hunger, and he was gaunt, more skin than flesh. Aragorn stopped.

"Give me your bowl."

The youth looked up. His eyes flickered from Aragorn to the orc-guard, and to Haldor and Taddal standing behind their Chieftain. His hand gripped the bowl, the food half eaten already. The room fell silent.

"L… Lord?" His eyes darted back to his food before he swallowed and looked back up at the orc. It grinned. He looked back to Aragorn.

"Your bowl." Aragorn's voice was deep and calm, as if soothing a frightened animal. The youth ducked his head and held the bowl up for Aragorn to take.

Instead of taking it, Aragorn tipped his own food into the bowl, scraping it out as well as he could. "Better eat up," he said. "Commander Apam does not like us to grow too thin."

The youth stared at him, finding no words, but Aragorn just walked on and found his place together with his Rangers. The orc-guard spluttered and ran off, and the buzz of many voices filled the room again. Aragorn sat as if nothing had happened.

"Was that wise?" Haldor asked.

"Yes," Aragorn answered. "Soon Gorgol will know, and so will Apam."

"They would have known had you just refused the food," Taddal pointed out.

"I did not do it for them. Not only our cave but those eating with us, now know. And the boy needed the food."

"And for this, Captain Gorgol might just pick him first, Aragorn."

Aragorn did not answer at first, but when Haldor prodded him again, he said: "I hope not."

"You did not think of it." Aragorn looked away, and Haldor stared at him. "Did you?"

"I will have to make sure they do not," was all the answer Aragorn gave.

Captain Gorgol arrived shortly after with several more guards, all bigger Orcs or Men. They pushed their way between the tables and the slaves scrambled to get out of their way. Only the Rangers sat as if they paid them no heed, and even among them, only Aragorn did not look up and shrink when Captain Gorgol stopped behind him.

" _Snaga_ ," he said, and the little orc-guard slithered up beside him. "Which of these miserable  _tarks_  dared take food from the one the Eye marked?"

"None," Aragorn answered without looking up.

"You would lie,  _tark_?" Gorgol's voice held glee. "Too frightened to tell the truth?"

"None took my food, Captain," Aragorn answered. "I gave it away. Did you and Commander Apam think I would break my resolve at the mere sight of the slop you serve us?" He rose and turned to face the Orc, and his voice rang clear through the room. "As long as there are prisoners starving, I will starve with them. I am the heir of Elendil, by birth and choice these men are mine. Mine to protect. I claim—"

But the Orc stuck him before he could say more. Weakened, he fell awkwardly, hitting first the bench where something cracked, but not the wood. He would have slid to the floor had not Haldor caught him. Gorgol grabbed him by the throat and tore him from Haldor's hands.

"Chow's done!" the Orc shouted to the room. He held Aragorn with one hand, shaking him without even looking. "It's not polite to eat when the  _king_  is done. Get to work!" In the bustle which followed, he hissed to the small orc-guard: "Find that boy and bring him to me." Without waiting, he turned and walked from the room, leaving it to his guards to bring the prisoners to work. He still held on to Aragorn, who was dragged after him.

_Not exactly a kingly exit._  But not unexpected. Aragorn held on to Gorgol's wrist and tried to breathe. The Orc did not let up, even when they were out of sight from the men. Down the tunnels and corridors he dragged Aragorn, to the cave of corrections.

Inside he threw Aragorn down, and Aragorn rolled on the floor until he hit the wall.

"You are mine now,  _tark_. And you have shown your hand."

_Breathe in, breathe out_.

Aragorn lifted his head. Yellow fangs gleamed in the torchlight, smug and gleeful. He tried to push himself up form the floor, but his shoulder flared in pain, and white-hot agony shot through his side. A rib, or two, must have broken against the bench. He gasped, but spoke through the pain.

"Do you think," he coughed, and then began anew. "Do you think I would not guess your next move? I know your thoughts: to punish me, you will torture the boy to whom I gave my food. You think it will break me? I witnessed the death of one I loved as a brother, and I am still unbroken."

"Ah, but I  _know_  you, Elessar," Gorgol answered. "Nobly you give your food to the weakest boy, and claim the men as yours to  _protect_. You watched one you loved as a brother die? Now you will witness the torture of one you would protect as a father."

One single torch burned on the cave, and the corner where Aragorn had rolled was filled with shadows. He blessed his luck that Gorgol could not see him clearly when he answered: "I have ordered men to their deaths before; I am not as soft as you think me, Orc."

"We'll see."

Gorgol took the torch and left.

"Go bring the boy!" Aragorn called after him. "The one whose name I do not even know. See how little it will sway me."

Gorgol turned in the doorway. Bow-legged and broad he shut out most of the light from the corridor outside, but the torch cast flickers of light over his face.

"Would you rather I fetched that captain of yours?"

Aragorn said nothing. Too far from the doorway, his corner was dark and the light of the torch could not reach him. The orc could not see him move, but it could hear the dull clank of his foot-irons. Its teeth flashed again, then Gorgol was gone. Aragorn could hear the key turn in the lock, and he was left in darkness. To worry and wait.

Slowly he was able to move, and he sat up, resting against the wall. The smaller of his ribs on the left side was broken — he could feel it move — but the others, he deemed, were only bruised. Shallow, careful breaths were all he took while he prodded his hurts. Scrapes from being dragged. His shoulder pulled again, but still holding. His throat sore and bruised.  _Would they dare another beating?_  Aragorn did not know what he feared most: more pain of the body, or of the soul.

—  _Do not let them make me the instrument of your fall._

The memory came unbidden. Elrohir's voice had been weak, but clear.  _I still have promises to keep_ , Aragorn reminded himself.

He was not left alone long. Guards returned, Men from the East. They dragged him up and chained him to the wall, arms and neck. Others brought light; lamps that burned more brightly than torches and chased the shadows into the corners of the cave. They sulked there, like scolded dogs. Aragorn could see the cave more clearly than he ever had.

It was a room made for punishments, and there was space enough for many people. Along the walls, manacles were fastened — some high, some low — and in the roof, hidden in darkness before, Aragorn could see hooks and hanging chains. Three guards lowered a hook hanging in the middle of the room, where Aragorn could see it well. They were not preparing for his pain. A part of him, hated and repressed, sighed in relief. Another, more encouraged, part steeled itself, and hoped Gorgol had believed his words.

The door opened.

…

From commander Apam's private notes:

_"The Hostage has proved more stiff-necked than all the reports have made me believe. He still refuses food, and our efforts have been thwarted. Even the ingenuity of the orcs has failed to force more than crumbs down his throat, for he is prepared to choke before he relents. The captain tried repeatedly, though he is somewhat hindered by the necessity to keep his body from too serious harm. The funnel Gorgol has used on others will damage the Hostage's throat. Before, it has not been too large a concern whether the prisoners died or was rendered mute by the captain's treatment. Now, we must break Elessar's will to resist, and his care for the men might be our only chance to do so."_

…

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Gorgol leered at him. Through the door two guards dragged a young man. Aragorn closed his eyes. He breathed in. For a moment, he held his breath, then he opened his eyes again and let it out. In some ways, it was better. In others, worse.

Across the room, Durion looked at him. And tried to smile.

…

_"I cannot forsake his trust, nor his bidding, Éowyn, yet I fear to do so. While I cling to the memory of him unbowed, I cannot forget his pain._

_I have seen pain before, even ordered punishment when I had to. In war, the innocent suffer no matter how much we would avoid it. Still the memory of_ him _is seared into my heart and all other memories pales beside it, and yet, to keep his trust and bidding, I must risk what I would give everything to avoid."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great thanks to Wheelrider who has helped me clean up this chapter. If any mistakes remain, please tell me: they are all my fault.
> 
> I dare not give any new date for the next chapter, but I am writing and will not abandon the story.


	15. The Gift of Men

Eyes burned at the back of his neck. Haldor could feel it, several of them, yet one pair burned stronger than the rest. Not Faron's, though he watched the Rangers from his corner. Not Thalion's or Hengest's, though he had not spoken to them since they joined the Rangers at their watch at the door. Not Angbor's — his he did not feel at all, though the Ranger had not been happy to be sent to their cave to guard what little they had left — nor Belith's, who had been sent with him. Haldor had come to know well the feeling of Belith's eyes in the last week, but the eyes which burned at his neck belonged to the youth to whom Aragorn had given his food. Haldor did not know his name, but he sat by the wall close by. He had not tried to talk to any of the Rangers, and Haldor had other worries on his mind. His Chieftain, and Durion; neither had yet been returned. Still the eyes burned.

Taddal stirred beside him. "Captain," he began, his voice lifting in question, "do you—"

The door opened, and whatever Taddal would ask, was forgotten. Aragorn and Durion were thrown in, and the door closed with no parting word from the guards. The Rangers moved before it had fully closed. Haldor reached Aragorn first, but the Chieftain twisted and scrambled towards Durion before he had even stopped falling.

"Chieft—"

"I am not the one in need. Durion…" Aragorn coughed before he could say anything more. He stumbled, unable to rise.

"Leave him to the others," Haldor said. "You clearly are in need as well."

"Durion —"

"There is blood from your mouth."

Aragorn paused, and stared. Red drops, fresh and glistening, lay at the back of his hand. "Cut," he said. "Old, from yesterday, reopened. Gorgol lost his patience."

Beside them, Durion had not moved.

"You are our best healer." Haldor gripped his Chieftain's shoulder. "Save your strength; he will need it."

Aragorn looked at him, and for a moment Haldor did not think he knew who he was, and where they were. Then he slumped. His eyes lost their despair. He nodded.

"You are right."

The Rangers lifted Durion up and bore him back to their cave, and the other prisoners gave way before them in silence. Haldor followed, helping his Chieftain along. The youth, sitting by the wall, reached out and took hold of Aragorn's clothes when they passed by. Haldor wanted to berate him, but Aragorn stopped.

"Yes?"

The youth wilted. Under Aragorn's gaze he stammered and could not speak, but Aragorn did not turn away.

"What is your name?" he asked, and the youth was startled out of his stammer.

"I am Nith, my lord. I have no father." The last was added as if he had answered that question his whole life.

"Well, Nith," Aragorn said, "what did you want to say?"

"Lord, that should have been me, should it not?" The voice was timid, but Haldor could not hear whether the youth spoke in relief or reproach.

"No," Aragorn answered. "It _could_ , but I did not give you my food to endanger you."

The youth stared at him. "Why do your men follow you, if you put them in danger instead of a stranger? Especially one such as me? Do you not protect your men?"

"We are loyal," Haldor began, but Aragorn waved him off.

"You are all mine to protect." Aragorn squatted down before the youth, getting close enough to see his eyes in the dim light. "My Rangers have a duty, same as mine; to help me protect my people. They knew, and agreed to, this danger, both before we came here, and when I decided on my plan. You did not."

"I marched with you to the Gate, lord. At first my heart quavered and when the winged terror came, I could not go on. But when you would let us turn back, I walked on." Nith sat up straighter, and his voice lost some of its timidness. "I, too, agreed to danger. I, too, agreed to protect."

Aragorn regarded him for a moment before he nodded. "I will not do you such discourtesy again, son of Gondor," he said. "Valour should not go unnoticed, nor be denied the chance to prove itself. But now I must see to Durion, for his need is dire."

The youth shifted until he stood on one knee before Aragorn. "My lord," he said, and bowed his head. Aragorn clasped his shoulder. Then he rose and with no further words he followed the Rangers. He leaned on Haldor and his free arm clutched at his waist.

…

From the hand of Faramir. On one of the pages of the letter, the date November 2nd is written in a different ink than the rest. I cannot be sure whether the letter was indeed written on this date, but the contents of the letter make me guess it is so.

_"Today my heart is high, beloved, though it may not have cause to celebrate. I was able to save the fisherfolk of Dol Amroth, at least for the winter, for I have managed to yet again delay the tax proposed on their fish. Though a tenth already has been taken by Nagid, to be sent to aid the occupation of Rohan, I have been able to thwart his demand for two-thirds. It is my hope that the farmers whose crops have failed may be able to partake in some of the luck of our fisherfolk._

_Rohan has again been our ally, though you may not know it. I would not have been able to win this victory had it not been for your brother and the resistance of your people. You have given the Mouth more trouble than any of our enemies had thought, and he has not given any thought to Gondor since he heard of the alliance of Orthanc._

_I wish I could have seen the fury of the Ents, though I fear that in the end even they will fall under the might of Mordor, and you and your brother with them."_

_…_

The next day the guards tried to drag Durion off to work. In vain both Aragorn and Haldor tried to reason with them; it was not until it became clear that Durion could not stand on his own that they left him alone. Aragorn they forced to leave with the others, loath though he was to leave Durion alone, and he was not allowed to see if the guards' treatment had further damaged the youth.

The guards drove them through the tunnels with more haste than usual. The walls rang with the echo of whips and curses, yet the guards did not hit any of them. But the noise was painful to endure and many hunched their shoulders for they did not dare lift their hands to shield their ears. From the corner of his eye Aragorn saw Nith ducking under the crack of a whip. He stayed close to the Rangers and did not try to mingle with Faron's men, as he had the other mornings.

When they arrived to break their fast, Captain Gorgol waited, watching Aragorn's every move.

…

From the journal of Commander Apam:

_"The Hostage still refuses to eat_. _He is more persistent than I had thought, for surely he must feel the hunger by now, and Captain Gorgol has been allowed to cause him further discomfort to make him comply. I had though the beating of the youngest of his men would sway him, for I have heard that there is only one of their numbers the Northmen shield more. But Elessar must be a hard and callous man, and it is to be wondered at that his men remain loyal to him. Another attempt must be made. I have impressed on Gorgol the importance of the Great Lord's — may His strength be with us — wishes, and the captain will use stronger force: the death of his captain may yet sway Elessar's mind."_

_…_

Deep under the cells and the orcs' dens lay the ore of hard iron, which armed the might of Mordor. The vein descended gradually until it branched out at the very roots of the mountains. No light could fully illuminate the darkness of those tunnels, and the torches seemed to smudge the air, rather than light the way. When the light turned blue, the guard withdrew and the slaves would follow unless the whips drove them back. Narrow shafts and sidetunnels branched out from the main, and the slaves were sent in alone, to bring out the ore or perish should the tunnel cave in.

There, deep under the surface, the ceilings were low and the tall Men of Númenór had to hunch low, but where Haldor worked, there was not even room for that. He had to crawl, pile the ore on a leather sheet, and pull it out after him before it could be gathered in the main tunnel where the guards waited. And Haldor was lucky. The vein had been worked long enough for there to be room to turn before he crawled out. Only one tunnel down, Badhor had to crawl backwards, drawing the ore after him when he had gathered enough to bring out.

Chance would have it that they both brought their ore when the water-boy came round and they where allowed a short rest to drink. Angbor had been given the task, for his hand had not healed and he could not mine.

"What news?" Haldor spoke softly, casting his eyes around to see were the guards stood. Badhor leaned in close to listen, but Angbor shook his head.

"I know no more than you. Candor I saw a little further down — he is still safe — but I have not seen Taddal on my last two rounds. Belith and Magor I have seen further down, but not the last time I was there. None of the others have I seen today."

"Perhaps they will try other means." It did not sound as if Badhor believed his own words.

"I can take no comfort from that though," Haldor said. "Better one of us than _him_. The Orc was angry."

But they could risk no more speech: four guards hastened down the tunnel towards them.

…

_Breathe in, breathe out._

No room to move, had he possessed the strength. Breathing was painful, yet Aragorn knew little else which could calm his mind. Iron bars pressed against him, and all he could do was to wait for the captain to return. He tried to remember a spring day, long ago, when the world had seemed full of hope. To remember the light of the sun in the sky and the twitter of the birds. The shimmer of new green on the birches and the merry song of streams and brooks rushing with snowmelt. But a shadow lay over the memory and it was muddled and dank. He could not escape into it; he could only wait, and force himself to hope. Or close his mind against fear and thought.

The door opened — _breathe in_ — and light streamed in from many torches. Aragorn squinted against it, but could not make out the many shapes. But he knew the voice of Captain Gorgol.

_Breathe out._

…

From the official report of the mine:

_"Captain Gorgol made another failed attempt to make the Great Lord's — may his strength never leave us — Hostage eat. It will cost us a worker. The loss, I grant, would have been acceptable had Captain Gorgol succeeded, but he misjudged the Hostage's will. And the worker's worth to Elessar: clearly he found his captain to be of no further use to him and sacrificed him for his pride._

_I have given Captain Gorgol's incompetence too long a rein, and I will have to take more direct action myself. But I fear the captain's mistake cannot be wholly repaired, and can only hope the Great Lord — may his wisdom guide me — will be with me when I speak with the Hostage again. The orc has left me in a difficult position, since he has allowed the Hostage to become dangerously weak. Soon his life will be beyond saving, and Gorgol has waited until now to inform me."_

_…_

At the end of the day the Rangers did not withdraw to their cave when they were brought back. They waited by the door, the first ones counting those who came later, the later joining the first in their watch. For each man who returned, they noted who was still missing, but did not speak their name until they had been returned. Only Durion, who could not rise, stayed in their cave — a poor guard should any be desperate enough to search it, but there was little left and the Rangers were anxious. Angbor, the first to be returned, would go between the door and the cave, checking on Durion and letting him know who had returned. It kept the other prisoners from taking advantage of their distraction. Both Thalion and Hengest tarried close by the mouth of the smaller cave, where they also could see the door.

Faron kept to his corner. Smoke, and the smell of food, spread through the cell and all of Faron's men stayed close to the fire. Theirs was the last food left.

For the Rangers an age could have passed, but in truth the wait was not long before the door opened and the last two men were thrown in. The Rangers hurried to them. The Chieftain did not rise, but rolled to his knees and crawled over to the last man: Belith.

Belith did not move.

"Rhíhul's bag," Aragorn called. "Fetch it!" His voice was cracked, full of gravel and urgency. Someone left at a run, but Aragorn did not turn to see who. "Get me a strip of cloth or a belt. Rope. Anything to tie off his wound. Quick!" He clenched his hands around the stump of Belith's forearm.

Haldor knelt beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The sound of ripping cloth could be heard behind them.

"Chieftain, let us carry him—"

"No!" Aragorn's face was pale and drawn, his eyes and voice stern. "It will take too long. Fetch the bag, and ready a fire. I need hot water, and iron to stop the bleeding."

Haldor had not had time to look at Belith, but Aragorn's hands were already red.

"Taddal is already on his way." Badhor were already running after him. Even so, Haldor thought they might be too late. "But Chieftain, we have no iron: the guards do not allow it."

Aragorn faltered for a moment, but before he could speak, Thalion, who had moved close when the door opened, spoke: "We will find a way. Tend to your man."

"Be quick!"

A hand held out a strip of cloth, and Aragorn snatched it and turned back to his task. Haldor turned with him to look at Belith.

Belith looked dead.

"Chieftain…"

"He is bleeding," Aragorn snapped. "As long as he bleeds, he is alive."

_Not for long._ Haldor did not voice his thoughts. "How can I help?"

Aragorn did not look up. With one hand he gripped the stump where once a hand had been, with the other he looped the cloth around the arm. "Get me a stick," he said. "We need to tie off the arm, as tight as we can. And prepare to take over once I have the bag. Until then, do not disturb me."

He began to tighten the tourniquet. Haldor gently took it from him, and he relinquished his grip. It was stronger than Haldor expected, but far weaker than it should be. Aragorn moved his hands to press against Belith's side instead. Blood seeped through his fingers there as well; Haldor had not even noticed the wound.

Aragorn closed his eyes and began to chant softly in the ancient Elven tongue. Haldor caught Belith's name but little else. Aragorn's face became drawn as with pain, and sweat glistened on his brow. A tremble spread up his arms, through his whole body, but Haldor dared not interfere. Not until Taddal returned with Rhíhul's bag.

Sifting through the bag, Aragorn swore. The only thing of use was the orc-salve, and against such a wound, it could do little. He grabbed it anyway, and threw the bag away. "Have we fire? Embers might serve in place of iron."

"It will take time for the fire to burn hot enough, Chieftain," Taddal answered. "But we have managed to light one."

"Belith does not have that time. The tourniquet will not be enough."

It was then that Thalion returned, bearing a faggot on which the end glowed red-hot. Aragorn did not look up, but he shifted to make room for more of the Rangers to kneel beside Belith.

"Hold him down," he ordered. "Hopefully he will not wake, but you must keep him still." He took the faggot from Thalion.

Belith did not wake.

Once he was done, Aragorn slumped. "You can move him now," he said. "Better now before he wakes; the rest can wait a little longer."

The salve lay unused by his side, but Aragorn did not move to pick it up. He stayed slumped, his eyes closed, while Belith was lifted from the ground and borne away. When Haldor helped him stand, he stumbled and leaned heavily on him, walking as one who sleeps. A few steps he took before he stopped.

"The salve," he said. "I need…"

"Taddal will bring it," Haldor answered.

Aragorn nodded and spoke not again. The prisoners parted before them, but Aragorn took no notice. None spoke to him.

Little else could be done for Belith. Haldor washed him but he did not ask for the salve. He was no healer, but he had done what he could when they lacked one, and he knew the signs of death. Aragorn had washed his hands, and he sat beside Belith, one hand on his brow. Haldor would have though he had swooned, but for the movement of his lips. His voice was too soft to hear. His face grew grey and sweat beaded his brow.

"Chieftain. Belith would not want to you to spend what little strength you have left."

No change.

"Aragorn."

But not even the use of his name drew Aragorn from his task. His frown deepened and his voice grew, calling Belith to return. At last he opened his eyes, but he shook his head.

"I have failed."

"You did not."

Weak and hoarse that voice had been silent for months, but now Belith spoke the word clearly. He opened his eyes, and they were as clear as before he left the North.

"You stood where I failed, Chieftain. I broke. You did not." Belith coughed, and Haldor hurried to let him drink. The cave around them was quiet, but the other Rangers kept their distance. Unwilling, perhaps, to disturb the Chieftain in his work. "I betrayed your trust."

"I know of no betrayal."

Aragorn's own voice was hoarse and weak, and his face was grey, as if he, too, was wounded.

"I could not watch, when they took Hadron. They… my fear was too great, and Marad… I could not endure, not as you, lord. The commander broke me. Even in madness I could not wholly escape."

"You became his spy?" Haldor could not believe it.

Belith did not answer. His eyes were on Aragorn, and he had gripped the Chieftain's hand with his remaining one. "I despaired. And what Marad lived through… I could not even bear to think of it. Not even your return could bring back my courage, lord, however much I longed for it."

"You chose silence," Aragorn said.

"It was not always enough."

Aragorn held on to his hand, as strongly as Belith gripped his, but his eyes softened. "It was all you had to give. Nothing more can be asked of any man. And you kept your silence to the end."

"It was your strength, Chieftain, which held us both. And with your courage, my own returned. Shamed I must leave this world, but now I have the courage to face my doom."

"No shame is upon you, Ranger."

But even as Aragorn spoke, Belith's hand fell loose and he spoke no more.

"Chieftain…"

But Aragorn did not answer. He kissed Belith's forehead and closed his eyes, and did not move from his side. Haldor stayed with him, and one by one the Rangers came, silent and grave, to stand around them. Taddal broke the silence first, intoning the mourning song. Slow and heavy it rose from their lips as one by one they took it up. Last Haldor opened his mouth and sang with them. Only Aragorn remained silent, while around him the cave filled with the words for the dead.

_"May the voices of the waters be with you and carry you beyond the circles of the world. Past Númenór that was, through Elvenhome that is, beyond sorrow to that which will forever be. To the One whose Gift has freed you from this world. Join the song beyond the water and the stars. Be at peace, kinsman, for your work is at an end. Rest, for your Road has ended. Long and heavy was your burden, now it is laid down. Be at peace, son of the West, until we meet beyond the circles of the world. Be at peace."_

Aragorn stayed by Belith's side the rest of the night, and the Rangers kept vigil with him. When morning came, Aragorn tried to lift Belith and carry him to the door, but his strength failed.

In silence Haldor helped their Chieftain rise. Taddal and Badhor lifted Belith's body from the floor. It was cold and stiff, and heavy with death. Together they bore him, and Haldor helped Aragorn walk after. The rest of the Rangers followed. Only Durion stayed, still unable to rise.

The cave had changed. Death might be easy to find in the mine, but seldom in the relative safety of the cells. Those who died usually never returned from work, or from the amusement of the guards. Even Faron bowed his head. In the corner of his eye, Haldor noted that Halthar did not.

…

 

_"My mind cannot leave the plight of my people, Éowyn, but the winter might not be as hard as I feared. The servants of the Citadel smile when I pass, and for the first time since our defeat, the smiles reach their eyes. Today a maid softly told me that her child no longer went hungry to sleep, not since the fish from Dol Amroth reached the City. She left white flowers in my chambers, though I know not where she found any at this time of year."_

…

"Kneel!"

Commander Apam sat at his desk, writing his notes. He had not looked up when Elessar was brought in and neither did he turn from his papers at the command, but from the corner of his eye he saw. He noted how Elessar had been dragged, and the slump of his head and shoulders. The guards helped the Hostage obey Gorgol's order, and the captain straightened him with a firm grip of his hair. Apam dismissed the guards and gave himself a moment to study him more openly.

His clothes showed the labour of the last month. The fabric was simple and coarse, no different from the other workers, but it was sturdy. The shirt was dirty from the work, with blotched stains around the collar and underneath the armpits where the dust and dirt of the mine had sunk into the weaving, but not yet worn beyond a slight fraying at the hem. From what little Apam could see, the hose was in the same state. The knees would be worn, and they would be dirtier in places, but the breeches of the prisoners were made of rougher cloth, and would withstand more wear than the shirts.

Elessar's hands were bound. The strain pulled at the shirt and it hung crocked on his shoulders, partly revealing the left and covering most of the chest, despite the rift in the neckline. Apam could only see half of the Eye.

Thin, narrow slits were all that could be seen of the Hostage's eyes. His face drawn taunt and his jaw set, his nostrils flared with each breath he sucked into his lungs. Apam could read pain in his stance, and a weariness kept tightly in check. The lip was split, but the blood had clotted; the injury was hours' old, if not more.

Apam waited, but Elessar was silent, and captain Gorgol said nothing.

"Well?" At long last, Apam broke the silence. Elessar opened his eyes, though they remained small slits, and swallowed.

"You asked to see me," Apam continued. "What do you have to say? Have you come to confess your wrongdoing towards the Great Lord — may his mercy ever bless us — and bow before His power?"

Elessar's jaws worked, his mouth opened and closed, but no sound came. He coughed, but still could make no sound beyond a small, croaking, frog-like sound. Apam rose from his chair and hunched down before him.

The sour, stale smell of unwashed Men met him, and under it, the scent of pain-sweat and strain. Elessar's mouth worked again, the breath no more sweet than the rest of him, and Apam thought he could make out the words.

_"Water. Please."_

The begging surprised him, for he thought him too proud to beg, but it was clear that Elessar could not speak further without drink. Apam stayed, continuing his study of the man, but sent Captain Gorgol to fetch water. Elessar slumped forward when the captain released his hair, and Apam saw a glimpse of his hands. The bindings had cut into the wrists, opening up the wounds there. Apam made a note to remind the Orc that no lasting damage was to be done without the approval of Barad-dûr.

Slowly Apam slipped a finger underneath the Hostage's chin to lift his head up again. Under his hand, Elessar was shivering. His head was too heavy for one finger to lift and Apam griped his jaws firmly instead, lifting it to further study the face. He found grief and weariness there, but no fear.

"You are unwise to anger the guards, Elessar," he said. He let his thumb prod the cut on the king's lip. "It can but end ill for you."

Elessar coughed again, but did not try to answer. Apam could feel the slight jerk of his head, as if he could not quite repress the urge to pull away from Apam's touch. Neither spoke until the captain returned and he had been given water. It seemed to restore some of his strength, as well as his voice, though Gorgol gripped him as before.

"I did not know that my well-fare was a concern to you," was the first words Elessar spoke.

"The welfare of all the workers are my responsibility," Apam answered. "The Great Lord — may he be blessed — feels compassion for all his enemies."

"You conduct your duties ill." Elessar did not sound like a prisoner, bund and on his knees. "This is my purpose here: to tell you that you have failed."

Apam had remained hunched down before the Hostage, but at those words he rose and turned. He walked back to his desk and sat down. Ignoring the sounds of Gorgol's displeasure, he scratched a few notes in his journal.

"In what way have I failed?" Apam asked. His voice was calm and cold.

Fresh blood trickled from the corner of Elessar's mouth. "You might be able to force some food past my throat, but not enough. You know this, as well as I do."

"There are ways—"

"None which work well enough. You orc have tried."

Apam paused. He regarded the king, and found no wavering in his eyes. The captain bristled, his eyes seeking Apam's permission to act, but he shook his head and waved him out of the room. Gorgol paused a moment before he obeyed. Apam turned back to his papers, his pen scratching over the parchment.

Aragorn slumped a bit further when the grip disappeared. A brief moment he let himself close his eyes and breathe. Apam's next words brought his eyes up again.

"Have you not yet learned your place?"

Aragorn's voice was soft but held no sign of surrender. "I knew my name before you were born." Beneath him, the stone was hard and smooth. Cold seeped through the cloth and Aragorn shivered, but his body was heavy and slow. Stiff, as if in trying to heal Belith his body had taken on itself the stiffness of his death.

_Or it is just the hunger, taking hold at last?_

The commander looked up from his papers. A small frown wrinkled his brow, but no other sign of his thoughts could be seen. The ghost of a smile flickered on his lips.

"I know your kind, Elessar. You tire of your hunger, but are too proud to admit defeat. Soon, you will break; I have but to wait."

"You broke Belith, though you reaped no gain from it." Aragorn spoke slowly. "Yet now he has escaped you. Others will follow if you do not heed me: I will not break by your hand, and my death will be your own. I do not have long to wait, already my body fails."

"I broke your captain more fully than you know, Elessar."

"He spoke ere he died. His words but strengthen my resolve. The choice is yours, Commander. You cannot force my body to live."

The smile had vanished from Apam's lips and his anger could be seen clearly. He moved, striding back to stand about Aragorn once more. Aragorn held his gaze, eyes open now, and steady. But a tremor ran though his body and he could barely keep upright.

"You will eat!"

"When the men can."

Apam lifted his hand. "You _will_ eat!"

Aragorn held his gaze even as the commander struck, and did not even try to draw back.

"You will eat!"

On the ground, Aragorn just shook his head. This time he was the one to smile, and it was the smile which made Apam pause.

He bent down beside the king and clutched his chin. "If you ever try to use your hunger against me again, I will starve the whole mine. You hear me, Hostage?"

"As long as there is enough food." Apam did not answer, but Aragorn saw the answer in his eyes. "I will hold you to this bargaining," he said. "As long as there is food, I will eat. See that there is."

"And I will hold you to your word in turn, Elessar." Commander Apam seemed to force the words out. "But do not think you will escape unpunished. Nor are you to speak of this again." He hissed the last, and his fingers bore into Aragorn's skin.

Aragorn closed his eyes and nodded. "I did not expect to. But it will take some time until my stomach can bear food again. If you do not withhold food for the other prisoners until then, your Master will not learn of our bargain from me."

"I have nothing to fear from the Great Lord — may His wisdom guide me always —" Apam answered. "And certainly not from anything you can say. You will show me proof of your surrender now, and spare yourself further punishments. Tomorrow your atonement will begin."

The punishment would wait longer than a day, though none of them knew then.

Aragorn nodded again, too tired to speak further, and Apam let him go. Aragorn slumped back on the floor while the commander barked orders in his own tongue to the guards outside the door. He said no more to Aragorn, but when the guards came in, dragged Aragorn up and cut his bonds, he watched, and did not look away until Aragorn had eaten what he could. But the food was too heavy, even though he ate little and slow. He could see the commander's anger but could do nothing to pacify him; he was too weary and his body was failing. The fight was over and with it, the last strength of his will. As if from afar, Aragorn heard Apam send the guards for the Dwarf healer. He drifted for a while, catching only snatches of words and sentences.

"…Heal…" Apam's voice, demanding.

"…no food for a starving man…" Lit's voice, speaking as if to some foolish child. "…time…"

"… See that you do not fail!"

Small but broad hands wiped him clean. He was held up gently, and a cup was held to his lips.

"Drink. You should be able to keep it down."

Milk, the first he had tasted for longer than he could remember. Buttermilk at that, rich and thick, but mild to the taste. Only a few sips, and then he had to wait.

"… more in a while … see if it stays…"

He should be able to place the voice, but it was lost in his fog now. No need to fight any longer, he let himself drift. Deep down a voice screamed that he was not safe, but he was too tired to care. After a while, the voice changed and the hands grew stronger, with long fingers. The scream fell silent and the words around him seemed familiar, as if from a forgotten memory. He stayed long in that place where neither good nor evil touched him.

…

From the official report of the mine:

" _The Hostage has begun to eat again. By the Great Lord's wisdom — may it ever guide me — I was able to persuade him where Captain Gorgol failed. Further loss of lives was avoided. My regret is that I did not intervene earlier; no matter how cunning, an orc will resort to violence before he tries any other way._

_I have moved the Hostage to the healing chambers. Since we still have received no new healer, I ordered one of his men to be given the task to tend him. The Dwarf needs no further ideas._

_With the increase of workers, I will need further provisions sooner than anticipated."_

In the private journal of Commander Apam, the pages are torn. From what I have gleaned, they were full of curses over the stubbornness of the king Elessar.

…

When the fog at last lifted, Aragorn found himself in a bed, in a cave he did not remember. Other beds stood empty beside his, and a single lamp burned above him. The light was soft. Beside his bed Haldor sat slumped on a small stool, propped against the wall, but his eyes were open. He started when he saw Aragorn awake, and sat up quickly.

"How long?"

It was difficult to speak. Painful, and Aragorn though his voice betrayed the pain, but Haldor said nothing about it.

"Too long," was all he answered. "But I have broth for you, if you think you can manage it. And some soft bread, such as only the commander eats."

"Have…?"

"It worked." Haldor seemed to know his mind without hearing. "We have food again, and lost no more men, though we all feared for you. Even our captors feared for your life, or the commander would not have given up his bread. His words are all about mercy, but even Faron can see the fear behind his eyes."

"Good." Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. Another question drifted past his mind. "Angry?"

"That too, though fear has won out so far, and will, I guess, until you have grown stronger: I have been allowed to care for you, since there is no healer."

"Dwarf?"

Aragorn could not yet speak clearly. His thoughts were still slow, and his tongue slower, but he could not yet muster the strength to care. Yet he needed to know.

"He gave me instructions before he was taken away. The Dwarves are valuable workers in a mine; Commander Apam keeps them even more apart from us than before. We are a bad influence, and you more than any other."

While he spoke, Haldor hoisted him carefully up and steadied him so he could sit. He held a small bowl and helped Aragorn drink the broth in small sips. It was lukewarm, but easy enough to drink. After a few sips, Haldor dipped the bread in it and fed him a few pieces. The broth made the bread even softer; Aragorn hardly needed to chew at all. He had to stop after a couple of bites.

"Will you be well?"

Nothing would be well again, still Aragorn nodded. "Slowly my strength will return." He even smiled. "I may be able to eat more in a little." At least enough strength had returned for him to speak.

…

_"Today, beloved Éowyn, I found proof that my people have not fully lost heart. Nor have they all forgotten their pride, nor their will to oppose the Enemy, even in defeat. One of the scribes dared leave me a token that some still seek to resist, and I managed to hide it before any of the Enemy's men could see it for what it was. Yet I hope they will not try to contact me again: it will be safer for all if I can truthfully say I know no names. For myself I do not fear, but I am a prisoner as surely as if I bore chains, and the Enemy holds the King."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me some trouble, as I was not happy with how it turned out at first. Thanks to, among others, Wheelrider, who has betaed the chapter and helped with the parts I was not sure about, I was able to revise it to the best of my abilities. Final revisions have not been betaed, so any mistakes left are my own fault.
> 
> I may in the close future do some revisions of the last chapter as some of the first scenes were not quite to my satisfactions, the lacks something I also has been made aware of in reviews and PMs. I am immensely grateful for such feedback, and am looking at how I can make it better, so as soon as I am happy with a rewrite, I will post it. I'll make a note in the chapter and in the first update after it, so you will know when something has been changed. It will likely not effect the plot greatly, though some changes in the events might happen
> 
> Finaly, I will thank all who read this story, and those of you who has commented. While I have not been good at answering so far, your comments are encouraging and greatly appreciated.


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